


i'll count the years of loving you

by yeterah



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Tags May Change, it's not a yeterah fic without it! :DD, oh and chapter number may change too 👀
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeterah/pseuds/yeterah
Summary: "You thinking of getting out?""Me? No, of course not.""Listen: if Dutch's grand plans work and we can make enough money to go someplace new— really new, then maybe we can all have a fresh start."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i tried this again bc Love & The Outlaw sucked and there was A LOT of things i could've done that i just.. didn't for some reason. I even outlined the details and didn't even act on them! LOOK AT MY DUMB ASS
> 
> anyway, plz enjoy this second try. 😊 i might be slow to update bc my school opens next week WOOOO
> 
> (oh btw the title comes from “I’ll Count the Days” off of the Downton Abbey soundtrack— give it a listen (and a watch bc that’s a good ass fucking period drama right there fym))

A good number of the Van der Linde gang were riding through Siberian-like weather that bit at their bones. They were the only ones loony enough to be out in it, and so were the O'Driscolls apparently: they ran into them looking for shelter upon the gang’s initial arrival to Colter. The Blackwater ferry job went to shit, so the main goal was to find food and a way out of the mountains. Still, they ambushed an O’Driscoll hideout and came out with dynamite and information about a train belonging to a Leviticus Cornwall. 

Dutch rode proud of his gang, and Arthur rode alongside him, wanting to share Dutch's pride if it weren't for the weather. Snow caked his eyes and ached his fingers and toes. He won’t deny he was put off when he found Dutch had slowed his horse into a trot, prolonging the gang’s time in the blizzard.

Dutch had pointed off into the white distance: "You see that feller?" Arthur had followed that finger, and at the end of it was a figure on the other side of the stream, stopped to nurse their horse. "Wasn't he at the camp with Colm?"

Arthur squinted for a better look and Dutch was right: he sure was. Remembered watching that boy get swatted at by Colm behind his binoculars. For talking out of turn, he could only guess. 

That boy must’ve recognized them as well, as he leaped on his horse and bolted into the wilderness in the same moment he turned his head to look at them. 

"Leave 'im to me," Arthur said, fetching his lasso.

"Alright," Dutch nodded. "We're heading back. Just bring him back alive; he could be useful!"

Arthur noted this. Meanwhile, he spurs his horse into a more strenuous trot. He prepares his lasso once he thinks he's close enough to the kid, but even then, there's still a good distance between them. The O'Driscoll is fast on his horse. 

Arthur's best bet is to slow the horse down. He’s reluctant, but eventually he pulls out his revolver and aims for the horse's leg. Fortunately for him, before he could pull the trigger, he sees the O'Driscoll flying through the air and putting a crater in the bitter snow. It seems the kid's horse did his job for him.

Arthur holsters his gun and rears his horse, dismounting and making his way to an O'Driscoll sitting up from the snow. He hasn't even touched him yet and the kid's already surrendering: "Don't hurt me— _ please _!" 

He's shrinking into the ice, cringing with his hands up like a white flag. Arthur wants to pity the kid but he can't manage to. Lasso in hand, he makes quick work of the O'Driscoll despite the way he squirms, and not much time passes before the kid’s tied up.

Arthur stows him on his horse, wanting to laugh at how the boy flops about like a fish out of water. Perhaps he'll save the laughing for later when he tells folk how chicken this kid is. He mounts up and clucks his horse into a trot not as uphill as before. 

"What's your name, boy?" he demands. 

The O'Driscoll grunts. "I don't know!"

Arthur scoffs. "You don't know your name?"

"It's Kieran!"

"Kieran what?"

"Duffy— Kieran Duffy!"

"Well, I won't lie to you," Arthur begins with a smile. "This is a real bad day for you, Kieran Duffy!"

He chuckles to himself when he gets the reaction he expects: a whimper and more wiggling. "Where're you takin' me?" the boy had to ask.

"Somewhere you ain't gonna like," Arthur answers. 

"What're you gonna do to me?" 

"Something you ain't gonna like. So, I'd advise you to save your breath for screaming."

"Aw, god no!" The O’Driscoll wiggles some more, and Arthur swears he sounds like he's about to cry. The kid's imaginings are going to his head like some strong drink and Arthur's about to start cackling, but again, he’ll save it. 

A few more miles to go and they've made it to Colter. "Here we are, you sack of shit," Arthur announces. He eyes a hitching post by the entrance and holds his horse up there, dismounting and draping a petrified boy on his shoulders like a rag. "Let's introduce you to the boys!"

The O'Driscoll's shivering so hard it ricochets off of Arthur's head. Dutch heard him arrive from his shack and comes outside to meet the pair of them there. He smiles at the sight of them. "You found the little shit, did ya'?" 

  


"Yup, I got 'im." Arthur drops the O'Driscoll at his feet. He cuts the rope at the kid's ankles but his arms remain bound. While he yanked him up out of the snow, Dutch greets the kid charmingly: "Welcome to your new home! Hope you're real happy here."

"You want me to make 'im talk?" Arthur asks.

"Oh, no," Dutch says. "Now all we'll get is lies." He calls for Bill and Uncle. "Tie this maggot up safe," he commands them, and they take the O'Driscoll from Arthur's hands. "We get 'im hungry first."

Once the kid's secure in Bill and Uncle's hold, Dutch meets his eye. "I got a saying, my friend," he began. "We shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed 'em as need feeding." He advances on the O'Driscoll, hellfire in his eyes while he finishes his ultimatum: "We are gonna find out what you need."

The next thing Arthur knows, Bill and Uncle are tugging the kid away and Dutch is beaming again. "I can't believe it!" he says. "An O'Driscoll in my camp!"

"I ain't an O'Driscoll, mister!" the kid yells back. He screams out a "I hate that feller" before he disappears into the stables next to Pearson. Quite the sight. 

The next day, Pearson reminds Arthur they're running scarce on food. Lenny and Bill couldn't find game when Pearson sent them out scouting, but right when Charles teaches Arthur how to hunt, they come back with two deer ready to be cooked and served in some belly-warming stew. The gang eats well that night.

Arthur guessed their luck was finally on the turn as he finished up the last of his stew in his bitterly cold room. After that, he got bored of listening to the fire in the cabin's den, so he went to check up on the O'Driscoll— see if his fear knocked any sense into him. 

Arthur could hear the kid from outside the barn, shouting things along the lines of, "they'll come looking for me!", them being his fellow men. He walks inside to Charles sat in a chair smoking with an empty bowl of stew by his feet, and the O'Driscoll tied up to a column. Arthur notices the kid shrinks when he walks in.

"Everything good in here?" Arthur inquires. 

Charles sighs, painting the stable air gray. “Sure.”

Arthur eyes the boy, who stiffens under his gaze, then back at Charles, who looked even more exhausted with a closer look. "You look tired."

Charles hums. "I'll be alright."

"Right." Arthur nods, clicking his tongue and returning his eyes on the boy. "Well, why don't you go get you some rest? I'll watch the little rattlesnake for the night— see if I can make 'im talk."

While the boy whimpers at that, Charles responds: "I told you I'm alright."

Arthur looks at Charles once more. "I insist."

There's a moment of pause before Charles decides he won't argue any further. "Alright," he says, putting his cigarette out beneath his boot. "Can't say you'll accomplish anything though." 

He takes his stew bowl with him out of the door and soon Arthur is left alone with the O'Driscoll. It's obvious that this fact terrifies the kid as he's turned the dial up on his whines and whimpers. Meanwhile, Arthur takes the chair Charles was sitting in and turns it toward the O'Driscoll before having a seat. 

Arthur didn't start talking until he lit himself a cigarette, ashing it whenever he needed. "So when you gon' tell us about this gang o'yours, O'Driscoll?"

"I—I ain't no O'Driscoll, mister," the kid whimpers out. "I—I don't like that feller!"

"You _ are _an O'Driscoll," Arthur corrects, tongue stern. "And you gon' tell me their whereabouts before that moon outside goes down."

"I can't tell ya' something I don't know!" the kid urges. 

Arthur huffs a breath— not quite a laugh. "Well, you do know something," he says. "And I'll tell you what else—"

He bolts from his chair in the same second his blade presses against the white of the O'Driscoll's neck. 

"You're gon' tell me where Colm is, young feller," Arthur gritted out. "Otherwise, you'll be playing harp before sunrise." His voice was a low rumble while his expression held resemblance to an angered bull. 

The O’Driscoll’s demeanor was quite the contrary from that: all color from the kid's face had vanished. He looked like a rabbit in front of snake, eyes bucked wide and his breathing hitched. Still, his heartbeat against Arthur's forearm felt like it was pumping miles of blood. 

For once, Arthur felt pity that wasn't with malice. He heaves out a sigh. "T’hell with this." He removes himself from the O'Driscoll, putting his knife back where it came from. The kid doesn't let his breath go until Arthur sits back down on his chair. 

"I—I'm—I'm tellin' ya', mister— I— I don't know nothin'," the O'Driscoll reiterates. "Won't ya' let me go? Please?"

Arthur chuckles. "I doubt that," he says. "'Least I know now threatening you won't do nothin'." Arthur ducks his head to mumble to himself. "It'll just make you piss yourself."

At that observation, Arthur stopped trying and instead focused on sleeping. He knew he could; that kid wasn’t going anywhere. Meanwhile, the O'Driscoll continued his griping until he couldn't do it no more.

By the time they were both asleep, the sun was coming up. Arthur was the first to wake up while the O'Driscoll somehow fell asleep; he didn't think he could in his position. 

Charles had came in as soon as Arthur was coherent enough. "Did he talk?" he asked.

Arthur rubs his half-lidded eyes. "No." He got up from his chair and stretched, popping a bone here and there. 

Charles hummed. "I told you you weren't gonna get anywhere."

"Yeah," Arthur sighed. "And I should've listened."

Charles took his spot then, as Dutch made it clear he didn't want the O'Driscoll unsupervised. Arthur went back to his cabin after a failed night, though he didn't leave discouraged; that kid was weak. He was bound to tell them _ something _sooner or later. 

More time passed at Colter until it was finally time to congregate elsewhere. After Dutch took his best men with him to rob Cornwall's train, they are given a good amount of money—bonds. Thaw comes a little after that and now the carriages are able to allow them safe passage out of the mountains.

Arthur rides with Hosea and Charles, nattering here and there, while the O'Driscoll is left tied up, thrown with the luggage as if he was luggage himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy! :D

It was sure calming to gradually emerge from the glacial snow in the western Grizzlies and into the woodland and spring air that was New Hanover. Very beautiful grazing country. Despite guiding the wagon, Arthur couldn't really keep his eyes off of the weather he was longing to see. Maybe that's how he broke the wheel at one point during the gang's travels. 

  
  


He won't deny that The Heartlands was not the place he remembers planning to be at this time of year; Dutch and Hosea were talking about taking the gang deeper into the west before Blackwater, sought after virgin land, but alas. Horseshoe Overlook would be their home for now, and luckily upon his arrival alongside Hosea, Charles, and Javier who picked up a ride at the camp's entrance, it was beginning to take its shape. 

  
  


"You weren't wrong, Hosea," Arthur began. "This place is perfect."

  
  


"I hope so," Hosea responded. Meanwhile, the four of them took their leave off of the wagon, going separate ways. People were all over camp, each member occupied with something, whether it be moving luggage, chopping wood, or making the bark of a tree warm. 

  
  


Arthur caught glimpse of the O'Driscoll as he got off the wagon. The boy looked twisted and distorted— it did a little something to Arthur's stomach. He's sure that's not empathy, however, but gratefulness; he's all too happy he's not in that boy's position. With that, he left the boy to rot evermore on that tree and instead walked on to see why a crowd had gathered around Dutch's tent all sudden-like. 

  
  


All the leader wanted was for his gang to bring in more money, as they were "far too poor". Sure enough, the ball got to rolling again a few weeks later. Charles, Bill, and Javier were in Valentine, presumably to see what's ripe enough for the plucking, and so was the Reverend (surprisingly), out at the train station by the lake. Meanwhile, Arthur got up that fine morning, waking up to a camp with better morale, and a cup of coffee from an optimistic Hosea. Both him and Dutch seemed a little happier, and seemed to have clearer minds. Made Arthur want to clear his mind off some too. 

  
  


Taking a deep breath of the eucalyptus air, Arthur thinks he wants to wander away for a bit, take in the pretty country below them all. He started making his way to the ledge on the western side of camp. 

  
  


He caught a glimpse of the O'Driscoll on the way— wanted to avoid the bastard but soon found it was inevitable as his desired spot was on that way. 

  
  


Of course the boy had to talk: "Oh no— don't pick at me— please."

  
  


Arthur won't lie: he felt something spike in him and it felt like anger and irritation, but he won't be catty, not now anyway. "I wasn't planning to," he answers, then he turns on his heel. "But I see you've tempted me."

  
  


The O'Driscoll boy shrunk like he usually did when Arthur came close. "Please, mister—" he whined. "Just let me go. I—I ain't no use t'ya'— really!"

  
  


Arthur chuckles. "No can do."

  
  


He watches the boy drop his head as he lets out a groan; Arthur imagined he didn't fancy being helpless, nor did he fancy being dehydrated, as Arthur saw from the rim of his steel cup how the O'Driscoll began eyeing the beverage in his hand. 

  
  


"'Must be thirsty, friend," Arthur called out. "Oglin' my coffee like that."

  
  


The O'Driscoll shrunk again getting called out like that, but Arthur brought his coffee to the boy— close enough for him to smell the grounded coffee beans inside, and it made his body unravel against the tree. 

  
  


Arthur had to snicker at this. "You want a swig, don't ya'?" 

  
  


The boy's eyes hadn't left the dark-roasted coffee even as he spoke. "I—I wouldn't mind me a sip, no sir.."

  
  


"Sure," Arthur smiled, and just like that, his hand tilted just right for the coffee to run out of the steel cup and land all over the O'Driscoll, causing him to yelp and probably sustain a burn beneath the fabric of his shirt. 

  
  


The boy grimaced and Arthur cackled, walking away and finishing up what was left. That made his day for sure. 

  
  


Arthur began his day after that, and it wasn't necessarily a pleasant one. He went into town to check up on the Reverend, to see if he did what he was really asked, and sure enough he didn't. He was completely soaked when Arthur got to him— so soaked he almost got himself killed on some train tracks. Arthur had to tote the poor bastard back to camp.

  
  


After that, Arthur figured checking on Javier and Charles would help the day go smoother. With Bill though he wasn't so sure, but he hopes he won't start anything. But he did, and suddenly Arthur's gotten himself in a bar fight— specifically in a fight with the burliest man there. Luckily, he won. Just about. 

  
  


He spent the rest of that unpredictable day at the hotel for a wash and a bed to sleep on (might as well). He would return home in the morning. 

  
  


His body ached still from the fight yesterday as he rode back. It was awfully irritating to him— maybe that explained why on his way to get coffee to calm his nerves, he heard the O'Driscoll start talking to him again— that whiny voice of his— and he got angrier. Perhaps even angrier than he was the last time he interacted with him.

  
  


"I know ya' got a heart, mister," he told him. "Talk to Dutch, please— tell 'im to let me go."

  
  


Arthur turned on his heel with a glare. "Speak!" he shouted. "Don't beg, boy, speak! About your gang."

  
  


It was loud enough to make the O'Driscoll jump and resign, hiding his face in his chest. "I can't," he shivered, then he started crying. It made Arthur want to actually give him something to cry about. But before he could..

  
  


"Woah! Hold your horses there!" Dutch was on their way toward them, alongside Bill. "It seems the cat has got our friend here's tongue."

  
  


He turns to Bill— the human bull. "I was thinking Mister Williamson could have a word."

  
  


With that, Bill advances on the O'Driscoll, looking prepared to skin the boy alive. "You ready t'talk, boy?"

  
  


"I told ya', mister— I told all o'you— I don't know nothing, okay? They ain't no friends of mine!" the boy urged. "I've just been ridden with them a while."

  
  


"Horseshit!" Bill roared. "We heard that part, so how 'bout you tell the truth?" Through gritted teeth, that human bull turned to Dutch: "What you want me to do?"

  
  


"Hurt him!" Dutch said. "So the next time he opens his mouth, it is to tell us what is going on!" 

  
  


Bill was on the verge of doing so, bucking at the O'Driscoll and making a fist that was white-knuckled and ready to clash with the boy's jaw. The threats did nothing, and got them the usual miserable response: a whimper and a flinch against the tree. 

  
  


"Who am I kidding," Dutch grimaces. "One of the O'Driscoll boys couldn't open his mouth, but he'd tell a lie." Suddenly a wicked smile creeps on his face. "Screw it; let's just have some fun." 

  
  


He turned to Bill and gave a command that sent the man running with just as wide a grin: "Geld him."

  
  


Arthur thought that was a little outlandish, but something had to get this boy to talk, even if it meant stripping him of his pride. 

  
  


And of course, the boy was missing it: "W—What's he doin'? Where's he goin'?"

  
  


"Oh, don't worry," said Dutch, and the boy yelped when he yanked his pants down to his ankles. "They're only balls, boy," he went on. "Just gonna cause you trouble."

  
  


The boy started wiggling then, trying to fight against the rope to cover back up. Arthur wouldn't know if it was the cold getting to his parts or the simple fact that his lanky manhood were exposed, but it was quite a sight, one that forced him to chuckle. And Dutch went on, making him chuckle a little harder. "You know, in Imperial Rome, eunuchs were the happiest and most loyal of courtiers."

  
  


Bill had came back with the red-hot tongs, and the poor bastard was beside himself with fear. "You sick bastards!" he shouted, and he tempted Bill, who drove the tongs even closer to his balls— too close for his comfort. 

  
  


"What do you want from me?!" he screamed, trying hard to get away from the scalding hot metal about to remove his dignity and pride. 

  
  


"Well, you are gonna talk," said Dutch. "The question is now or after we've got these little fellers off?"

  


The tongs got so close at that moment that the red light reflected off of the boy's pale skin; Arthur could tell the tongs were burning him and they hadn't even touched him yet with how much he was wiggling and flinching. He was doing more yelping than he was talking until—

  
  


"Okay— listen! I know where O'Driscoll's holed up, and you're right: he don't like you any more than you like 'im." And then he came out with it: "He's at Six Point Cabin!"

  
  


A wave of relief washed over Dutch, Bill, and especially Arthur, who smiled at himself for being right; that boy was bound to crack one day— the weak weasel. 

  
  


"I'll take ya' there— serious," the boy went on. "I—I don't like 'im. I mean, I like 'im even less than I like you— no offense."

  
  


Bill put away the tongs with the flick of Dutch's fingers. "None taken," said he. 

  
  


"Okay then, partner!" Arthur took out his knife and cut away at the ropes that left the boy bound all this time. "Why don't you take a few of us right now?" The ropes were undone and he turned to Dutch with a smile: "I got this, Dutch. Should be fun!"

  
  


Once the O'Driscoll had his pants back on him, Arthur grabbed him and flung him ahead of him toward the exit. "Let's both hope you ain't tryna' trick us, O'Driscoll," Arthur said. 

  
  


The boy grunted, rubbing his pale red wrists. "I ain't an O'Driscoll!"

  
  


Arthur's voice became a low rumble: "But you sure as shit was," he says. "Now where's this spot?"

  
  


"Uh—Up in the hills past Valentine," the boy informs. "I—I'll show ya'."

  
  


Arthur hums, then calls for John and Bill who didn't wander far off. "We got a social call needs making," he informs them. "John, you take the weasel wit' you. Any nonsense, kill 'im."

  
  


"Sure," John nods while the O'Driscoll whimpers as if he's already been hurt. The four of them mount up, with John unfortunate enough to share saddle with the boy. "He takin' us to Colm then?" 

  
  


"That's what he says," Arthur responds, giving the O'Driscoll one more look. 

  
  


"I'm taking ya' to 'im," he urges. "I—I'll give ya' more directions when we're close, but if I know where we are, it's up past Valentine."

  
  


With that, John leads and the group makes their way with the help of their guide. They travel past Valentine— like their guide had said— and stopped at a clearing on the outskirts of Cumberland Forest, where Six Point Cabin awaited them further down into the woodland. 

  
  


After horses were hitched, Arthur, Bill, and John prepared their weapons (gelding knives and the like) while the O'Driscoll waited, definitely not far off. 

  
  


"Follow me, alright?" the boy whispered to the three of them once they were ready. "It ain't far."

  
  


The group prowled onto a ledge, where they were able to scope out the area. The O'Driscoll pointed into the wilderness. "The cabin's in the clearing over there," he informs. "There'll be a bunch o'fellers hiding 'round there too."

  
  


"Are these fellers armed?" Arthur inquired. 

  
  


"Armed, drunk, wary of strangers— yup."

  
  


"And Colm O'Driscoll?"

  
  


"Oh— he'll be holed up in that cabin," the boy says. "Be passed out, booze blind, likely as not."

  
  


"Over there," Bill points the barrel of his gun off somewhere. "Someone's comin'."

  
  


Sure enough, three mercenaries came— looked like buddies. Two of them wander off while the other stopped to piss. Arthur was able to avoid looking at that however when he was trying to figure out why he kept hearing whimpering behind him. Turns out it was John, jabbing the barrel into the O’Driscoll's temple and a hand locked over the contours of the his face. 

  
  


Arthur rolled his eyes and moved forward. "I'm gonna deal with this first feller." 

  
  


He went to work, preparing his gelding knife. He twisted it around his fingers while he waited for the right moment, and when it came, the pisser was down with just the flick of Arthur's wrist. 

  
  


John and Bill joined him after that, and the O'Driscoll was left on the ledge, meek as a lamb. 

  
  


"Morgan," Bill hissed to Arthur after getting in hiding. "What're we doin' 'bout the next two?"

  
  


Meaning the pisser's friends, waiting patiently for him to finish up. Arthur thought a moment before answering: "We'll take 'em out a distance. When I move, you move."

  
  


"I can do that," says Bill. Within seconds, an axe and a gelding knife cut gashes through the air until they hit their target. With that, the three of them moved up on the camp. 

  
  


There was another mercenary after the first three, sat on a log. "What we doin' 'bout him?" John asked. 

  
  


"Go on and take 'im, Marston," Arthur instructed. "But quietly."

  
  


With that, John prowled behind the O'Driscoll, and stabbed the bastard relentlessly once he was close— blood went everywhere. It was brutal, but Arthur never said kill _ cleanly, _ just quietly. 

  
  


While Bill caught up, John turned to face Arthur behind the log their victim was once sitting on. "Okay, now what? We're at the perimeter." 

  
  


Arthur joined them behind the log. "Right," he began. He puts away his gelding knife in thought before shrugging. "Well—" His hand digs into his satchel until it came back up with a stick of dynamite. "This should do." 

  
  


John and Bill looked as if they wanted to question that, but didn't. Meanwhile, Arthur flicked a match across his boot and lit the fuse, hauling it across the hideout. Screams were heard until the explosion sent O'Driscolls flying in all directions. 

  
  


With that, the three of them split up. Arthur went to the west side of Six Point Cabin, as he had caught a glimpse of other O'Driscolls there as well. Thought about throwing another stick, but alas; killing O'Driscolls up front seems fun too, even if there seemed to be quite a few. 

  
  


"More comin' from the trees!" Arthur heard John a few feet away. Sure enough, there were mercenaries falling in. He would wonder why the hell he ain't spotted them before, but it's wiser to ponder that later. The toad weren't lying about there being a lot of men. 

  
  


Enough standing their ground, and suddenly the O'Driscolls hadn't ran in but ran away. Arthur heard John from a few feet: "That's it! They're turning tail!" 

  
  


"Leave 'em; Colm's still here," said Arthur, eyeing the cabin the boy pointed out earlier. "Take what you can from these fools,” he told Bill and John. “ I'll check the cabin." 

  
  


This they do. John and Bill find what goodies they can while Arthur made his walk to the cabin, reloading his gun as he does so. Up close, the cabin looked quite comfortable— something a man like Colm didn't deserve. 

  
  


He walked upon the porch and set his gun in his left hand, about the turn the knob when suddenly he's knocked back and finds himself on the floor facing the barrel of a shotgun. A fine greeting given by a mercenary at the door.

  
  


It scared the wits out of Arthur and he flinched when a bang rang his ears and rustled the trees. Just like that, the mercenary had a bullet wound in him that knocked him clean out. Arthur watched with awe before he slumped back on the wooden porch, euphorically relieved. 

  
  


"You alright?"

  
  


Sounded like the O'Driscoll— Arthur opened his eyes and it _ was _the O'Driscoll, with a white-knuckled grip on his revolver that emitted smoke from its barrel. 

  
  


Arthur heaved a sigh. How ironic: an_ O'Driscoll _ saved his life. "Sure," he groans. "Thank you."

  
  


He has to sigh again even as he gets up. With faltered dignity, he goes into the cabin like he was meant to, scoping out what was there. A bed, food, fireplace, decorations that screamed Colm, and yet Colm wasn't there. 

  
  


Arthur lowered his gun, anger spiking. "He set us up." 

  
  


He stormed out of the cabin and met the O'Driscoll outside with fire in his eyes. "Come 'ere!" 

  
  


The bastard had the nerve to look confused. "Wh—?"

  
  


"You set us up," Arthur gritted out. 

  
  


"No— I didn't—" 

  
  


"You did—" Arthur shoved his revolver at the O'Driscoll's frontal lobe, finger aching to pull on the trigger. "Colm O'Driscoll ain't here!"

  
  


"He was here! I—I swear—I—" the weasel screamed back, fumbling on his words. "I—If I was settin' ya' up, I wouldn't've saved your life!"

  
  


John and Bill had joined them, and Bill had to say the O'Driscoll's point was a good one. It might have been, against Arthur's better judgement. Through gritted teeth, he holstered his gun. "Alright then— go on, get outta here."

  
  


The boy started acting stupid again— is there any moment he's not confused? "Eh?"

  
  


"I won't kill you!" Arthur told him, then it dawned on him. 

  
  


Unfortunately, it put up a fight in him: "I didn't set you up!"

  
  


"Get lost."

  
  


"Get lost?" the O'Driscoll echoed.

  
  


"I'm letting you run away—" Arthur grabbed the boy by the collar and flung him away since his legs didn't work. "Go on! Get out of here!"

  
  


"That's as good as killin' me!" the boy urged, and he waddled right back, determined. "Out there, without you, Colm O'Driscoll's gon' lose his mind about this."

  
  


Arthur scoffed. "So?"

  
  


"So I'm one of _ you _now!"

  
  


The nerve on that bastard. Arthur turned to look at his group, and they quickly established their say on the subject: "up to you". Arthur sighed then and rubbed his temples, annoyed that once again, his natural empathy would be his folly. 

  
  


"Alright then," he grumbled, then pointed a finger in the boy's face. "But I'm warning you."

  
  


The boy's hands flung up as if to surrender. "I—I know," he forced out. He sounded unnerved despite the smile that itched at his unshaven face. 

  
  


Arthur walked on, Bill and John following. "Come on then; let's get to camp."

  
  


The boy stayed back a few pegs before he said, "So ya' got the cash then?" 

  
  


Arthur turned back to him. "What cash?" So did Bill and John.

  
  


"Yeah— there's usually some cash," the boy informed. "In the chimney!" Suddenly he turned on his heel to run into the cabin. 

  
  


"I'll check it!" Arthur called after him, and it stopped him in his tracks. The boy descended the stairs as quickly as he ascended them. Meanwhile, Arthur made his way inside: "Rest of you boys get to camp— quick."

  
  


This they did, and Arthur found him a variety of money clips inside this cabin, and a good $600 worth of cash tucked away in the chimney, just like the boy said. He hummed when he grabbed it; that boy puts a sad disgrace on his entire sex, but he was quite the reliable source. Arthur even found a shotgun too— a fine one. After that, he mounted up and left Six Point Cabin, just before the law came. 

  
  


The rest of that rather eventful day was lost at camp, where there is now a new member, brushing saddles and spoiling horses wherever he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is gr8 m8 8/8


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever had those sucky things called school & self-doubt that keeps you from writing? yee me too  
anyway ENJOY !!! :DD!!!

Arthur still wasn’t sure how he felt about this O’Driscoll roaming around camp, wiping down the tables and tending the horses as if he belonged. However ridiculous this interminable feud between them and Colm’s gang was, recruiting men from the other side was a little unseemly. But it was Arthur who let it happen, and Dutch wasn’t keen on stopping him. 

  
  
  


Where else were the little bastard to go? They couldn’t let him just roam the open world and get nearer to his death, Arthur supposes. He feels bad for folk sometimes, against his better judgement, but even so, his empathy won’t make him feel obligated to be the boy’s friend. He’s sure he’s got greater self-respect and dignity than that. 

  
  
  


But on his way to a kindled fire on the far side of camp, he saw the boy and couldn’t help himself. He had laid eyes on him and the nasty look just surfaced, almost as if operated by a switch. “O’Driscoll.”

  
  
  


He was brushing a foal down, one with a beautiful red coat, until his strokes slowed to a stop, and he turned his head to remind Arthur, “I’m not an O’Driscoll, mister.” His tone was itching to be sharp despite the wobbly voice he has, then he continued to brush, along the foal’s crest. 

  
  
  


Arthur considered moving on, but the filly caught his eye— not the filly herself, but her non-verbal language; her eyes were drooping and her lower lip was relaxed. Arthur found a pattern, that all of the horses seemed quite happy when that boy were at their side, quite happier than they would be with their owners. 

  
  
  


Arthur hummed. “I see the horses like you.”

  
  
  


A smile teased at the O’Driscoll’s thin lips. “They do, don’t they?” he says, the feeling very much mutual. 

  
  
  


Arthur nodded. “Guess you ain’t as useless as you put on.”

  
  
  


The O’Driscoll’s smile had fallen at that remark, as if a heavy force weighed it down. With a roll of his eyes, he sighed. “Sure.”

  
  
  


Arthur saw that, and found himself snickering; it was the boldest move the little man has ever pulled off with him. “Let’s both hope that wasn’t cheek, O’Driscoll.”

  
  
  


The boy’s brush left the foal and went into his dingy pocket as he moved to grab the saddle laying by his feet. When he rose again, he had a look on his face; an attempt at a scowl. “Take it how you will,” he spat, walking off and Arthur couldn’t tell if the boy had meant for their shoulders to clash as he went on or not.

  
  
  


Either way, it got him stomping after him. “Now you listen ‘ere, boy—” He caught his arm in a tight hold, yanking him toward him with a mighty jolt. Now face to face, Arthur witnessed the O’Driscoll’s originally catty look morph into shock. 

  
  
  


“Just ‘cause you ain’t tied to no tree don’t mean you can say and do as you please,” Arthur begins, through his gritted teeth. “Remember we’re watching you, and we’ll unmake you just as quick as you’ve been made, you understand me?”

  
  
  


Arthur could see the boy wanting to shrink under his glare, as his fear was so evident on his face, but he somehow managed against it. Instead, he writhed out of Arthur’s grip and put on a glare of his own— not a very convincing one, but a fierce one nonetheless. “Just get lost,” he spat, and with a sharp turn of his heel, he marched on.

  
  
  


Arthur will admit to being surprised by the weasel fighting his corner, but it didn’t stop him from reminding him of his place. “You keep that in your mind, young feller,” he called after him. “Right at the forefront of it!”

  
  
  


There was no retaliation, and perhaps that was best. Arthur went on, and after a cup of coffee and a cigarette, he began his day.

  
  
  


For once he had a day that wasn’t exciting. He went fishing for a little bit and tried his luck at hunting again, even stopped for herbs and berries that caught his eye. He’s out until sundown, and by then he’s returned to his home with not much but a few pickerel (unfortunately, he only had bread for bait). Pearson thanked him nonetheless, and Arthur got away with a nod and half of a smile. 

  
  
  


Now the crescent moon accompanied by its gleaming stars had replaced the clouds and the bright sun, cold nighttime air had settled into the atmosphere, and Arthur was sure he was to rest well tonight until the scream of an unfortunate rings his ears from a few feet away.

  
  
  


Arthur turned his head toward the sound in a moment of irritation, and once he had laid eyes on the source of the noise, he wasn’t the least bit surprised: Bill had the O’Driscoll pinned down under his knee, gelding tongs back in his hands and ready to snip away at the boy’s parts yet again. The boy was squealing and kicking and doing quite the contrary of fighting. 

  
  
  


“Hold still!” Bill laughs heartily. “Pearson says he’s short a little meat for the pie!” 

  
  
  


Arthur got conflicted over what he should do for once; should he keep moving? Should he entertain it? But the boy’s screaming and Bill’s booming laugh joined with that..

  
  
  


“Stop it!” the boy screams. “This ain’t funny!”

  
  
  


“Oh, I disagree,” Bill cackles. “Now why you so afraid of a pair o’gelding tongs?”

  
  
  


It quickly led Arthur to a decision, and the next thing he knew, he was moving onto the scene with clear motivation. His boot lifted and he shouts, “Leave the kid alone, Williamson!” The sole of his shoe meets the meat of Bill’s shoulder, and he’s knocked back, gelding tongs flying out of his hand and clattering beside him on the ground. In that same second, Arthur has grabbed the shell-shocked O’Driscoll by the collar and yanked him upright. 

  
  
  


Bill looks up at Arthur with that familiar bull-like frown. “The hell’s your problem, Morgan?” he lashes out. “You’re turnin’ into a real fairy godmother!”

  
  
  


“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur dismisses. He wasn’t focused on retaliating so much as he was getting the boy as far away from that looney Bill as possible. He grapples him by the forearm and drags them both across camp, not letting go until they were completely on the other side. By then, Arthur practically flings him away, and that fool boy barely catches himself. 

  
  
  


“Thought you knew not to get in folk’s way,” Arthur scolds. 

  
  
  


“I wasn’t in anybody’s way!” the boy insists. “I—I was just walkin’ past—  _ he’s  _ the one that wanted trouble!”

  
  
  


Arthur could’ve tore him a new one, always getting into shit, but he could only manage a sigh. “Forget it,” he shakes himself. “I don’t give a damn how it happened, just make sure it don’t happen again, otherwise you’ll have me to answer to.”

  
  
  


The O’Driscoll replied with a grunt, massaging his forearm where Arthur had been tugging hard. “Thanks anyway,” he struggled to get out, presumably from damaged pride. 

  
  
  


“Don’t thank me,” Arthur dismisses, and he leaves the boy to wallow in his folly. 

  
  
  


He’s finally made it into his cot, taken off his boots and his gun belt, and has gotten comfortable. Even with this, he struggles to get to sleep. He figures it’s the adrenaline produced by his burst of fury still trying to wear off. Thinking on that, he was wondering why he always felt the need to help that fool boy whenever he gets himself out of line. But again, Arthur ties it up to his natural empathy for people and not a more ridiculous conclusion; that he may have been after something all along, like a friendship or an acquaintance. He vowed to himself he would never, and he knows he would never. 

  
  
  


With that, he doesn’t allow himself to think about it any further, and he forces himself to sleep. 

  
  
  


The next day comes around, and Arthur is reminded in the morning that Javier, Charles, and Trelawny are still waiting for him outside of Blackwater to get Sean back. Sean, an uppity kid who’s gotten himself took by Ike Skelding’s boys. Trelawny is initially there to investigate the gaping wound the gang left in Blackwater while Javier and Charles are there to help Arthur get into the bounty hunters’ base. Thankfully, everything went what they would call smoothly, and Sean was in one piece. Missing teeth and still as annoying as Arthur remembered, but in one piece all the same. 

  
  
  


Charles and Javier take “Dead Eye MacGuire” back to camp while Arthur winds down in the only way he knows how; gallivanting. He gets back home at night, and it’s obvious that the gang welcomed Sean back with open arms because Dutch tells him they’re having a shindy on account of Sean’s return. “Just a little one,” he says with a smile.

  
  
  


It couldn’t have been no later than nine o’clock when it began with song and bottles of gin, beer, and bourbon for the whole lot of them. Sean, being the animated person that he is, takes full advantage of being the spotlight of the party, and his audience takes full advantage of being his audience. Some get soaked, others dance, many more sing into the cold nightly air. Arthur sings a song or two and drinks a few beers— nothing unreasonable. 

  
  
  


He’s a bit of an introvert, however, and after enough interaction, he was yearning for a bit of solitude. Taking a bottle of something with him, he goes into the woodland outside of camp, where the trees and shrubs below rustled quietly and the moon showered its light just right. 

  
  
  


But upon walking to this much admired spot, he doesn’t expect to see the O’Driscoll already there, reclined against the bark of a tree with a bottle, barely touched, by his lap. 

  
  
  


While his head is up staring at the sky, Arthur sighed, as he can’t seem to get away from that weasel for shit. “What’re you doin’ here, O’Driscoll?”

  
  
  


The boy jumped, and he turns around to meet Arthur’s eyes. He swallows and clears his throat before answering. “I ain’t wanna spoil y’all’s fun.”

  
  
  


“Well, you’ve done that just breathing our air, so don’t let’s go overboard,” Arthur commented, and his finger taps on the neck of his bottle. “But I like that spot you sittin’ in, and I don’t much fancy an O’Driscoll takin’ it from me.”

  
  
  


“Chrissakes— will ya’ leave it?” the boy spits out, sudden-like. “I—I’m one o’ya’ now, whether you like it or not, so get used to it. An’ call me Kieran, not O’Driscoll.”

  
  
  


Arthur would have fought his corner, but alas; maybe the boy has a point. The rustling trees had replaced the silence that fell between them until Arthur decided to speak: “Scoot yourself over then,  _ Kieran _ ,” says he, walking toward him. “Since you won’t move your ass.”

  
  
  


Kieran hesitated for a moment, looking for a second thought in Arthur’s visage, but when he couldn’t find it, it’s then that he finally makes as much room as he can in a one-man space. Arthur sits down and they’re touching shoulders, stiffer than statues, but they get as comfortable as they can manage. They enjoy the scenery before them and listen to the gang behind them, having the time of their lives. 

  
  
  


Arthur went into his thoughts after a little bit, and there, he thought of Six Point Cabin and what had transpired there. That asshole mercenary knocked him down and Arthur swears he saw his life flash before his eyes when that gun was hovering over his frontal lobe. But then he was saved, not by the grace of god, but by the little man he was sitting next to. 

  
  
  


Rather than feel recurring embarrassment, he felt something along the lines of gratefulness, and hummed, as he never thought he would regarding that miserable boy. “I never thanked you for that, you know,” he thinks out loud. 

  
  
  


Kieran seemed just as lost in his own thoughts, and came out of them with a curled brow. “For what?”

  
  
  


Arthur elaborated as best as he could after a sip of his beer. “Well, for saving my life,” he mumbled. “At Six Point.”

  
  
  


Kieran beamed; Arthur’s the first to see him seriously grin. “Well, yeah— of course!” he says, and after a moment, he hums too as his grin goes into a smile. “An’ I ain’t thanked you for sparin’ me like that.” He clears his throat in the same moment he frowns. “Thought I—I ain’t had much opportunity, seein’ as I been livin’ in a nightmare ever since I came here.”

  
  
  


Kieran should feel accomplished: he’s the first O’Driscoll to ever make Arthur laugh. “Not quite sure what to tell you, kid,” he chuckles. “We can’t help but to put your kind through the village of the damned. We don’t know no different.”

  
  
  


“But I ain’t belongin’ to no kind I keep tellin’ you,” Kieran insists. “I—I’m just me.”

  
  
  


“Mm,” Arthur nods, and his eyes return to the scenery while he speaks a thought out loud: “Then why join Colm O’Driscoll’s gang, I wonder?”

  
  
  


“I ain’t even have no say in that,” Kieran responds. “T—They told me to ride with them or die. You can’t say I had much choice in that.”

  
  
  


Arthur hums, only managing to understand a little. “I know I’d rather die than join Colm O’Driscoll’s gang.”

  
  
  


Kieran goes quiet for a moment before letting out a thin sigh. “I s’pose I’m a coward then.”

  
  
  


“Most definitely,” Arthur concurs with a chuckle, taking a few more sups of his gin before deciding he was more curious about the boy’s relations with the latter gang than he figured. “How long was you runnin’ with Colm anyway?”

  
  
  


“Just a couple o’months,” Kieran answers. “I—I was only a runner, helpin’ out with the horses mainly ‘cause that’s all I knew. Bottom rung of the ladder. Colm ain’t even know my name.”

  
  
  


“And to think that was the high point of your career,” Arthur teases.

  
  
  


They’re sat there a moment longer in silence before Kieran opens his mouth to speak: “I—I know ya’ don’t think much o’me now, but I—I know you’ll warm up to me,” he begins, sage eyes bright with determination. “I ain’t a bad feller, you know. I—I’ll work hard and I’ll make good. You’ll see.”

  
  
  


_ You’ll warm up to me. I’ll make good. _ Arthur quickly decided those declarations were enough to make him take his leave; he’ll hear no more of it. But he’ll leave him with a statement: “Just see that you do.” Bottle in hand, he goes on his way to find an alternative spot around camp. 

  
  
  


As he walks, those declarations resurface and instead of labeling them as untrue, he thinks for a moment that maybe there’s a slim chance that they may be true, and if so, how is that boy going to manage making them come to fruition, Arthur wonders?

  
  


* * *

The sun rises, and almost everyone is hungover and leaving a trail of grimace wherever they went. Arthur’s fine, of course, because, for once, he drank moderately. Once up and about, he relaxes at that same kindled fire with the same metal mug of black coffee, staring at the cackling fire until he hears a pair of footsteps approaching from behind him. It’s Pearson, came to say good morning. 

  
  
  


“Morning,” Arthur nods, and he turns back around. He still feels Pearson’s presence after a little too long, and when he turns around to check, sure enough, he’s greeted with that same walrus mustache. 

  
  
  


He sighs, because he knows what he’s there for. “Food, Pearson, I know, and I’m doing my best—”

  
  
  


“Well, not now, Mister Morgan,” Pearson stops him. “Now I just need ingredients for this stew I’m making a little different. Sean has drank everyone under the tables and they need a stew that cures them rather than just put something on their stomachs.”

  
  
  


“Right,” Arthur nods. “So you need me to go scouting for grub.”

  
  
  


“Just ingredients,” Pearson reiterates. “I’m running low, you see, and some of them are new.” He digs into his pocket and his hand comes out with a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the list,” he says as he holds it out for Arthur to take. “You’re the fittest man I’ve got right now, Arthur.”

  
  
  


“I’m always the fittest man,” Arthur gripes, staring at the chicken-scratch on this folded paper. He could make out “potato” and “beef” and “carrot” and the rest was rubbish. With a sigh, he comes to terms with what he’s obligated to do. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  
  
  


“Thank you, Mister Morgan.”

  
  
  


“Sure,” Arthur mumbles. “What about you? You ain’t bothered any?”

  
  
  


“Oh, you know me,” Pearson starts with a toothy grin. “I ain’t never been bothered by a bottle or two!”

  
  
  


He laughs a laugh that comes from deep within his chest, hearty and all, and Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to join in on the joy. But he’s glad Pearson’s feeling so good about being a borderline alcoholic. At the end of their one-sided laugh, Pearson gives Arthur camp funds for the shopping, and after finishing the last dregs of his coffee, he takes one of the wagons into Valentine.

  
  
  


The trip at the general store was quick enough; with enough concentration and strain from his eyes, Arthur was able to make out the rest of the list which was mostly dry goods. All of what money Pearson gives him from funds is spent responsibly, and after the store clerks have moved his groceries into the wagon, Arthur bids the storekeeper a good day and he goes on. 

  
  
  


The journey was smooth back to camp, and Arthur, being so attentive, noticed there was no one on guard duty. It was unsettling, as it was quite the risk. Everyone was hungover, sure, but even so, no one could manage?

  
  
  


Arthur was further down the road and on his way to turning when he saw there was someone outside of camp: Kieran. One would think it’d make him happy, but it did the opposite; he certainly did not look like he was on guard duty, as he had a half-spent cigarette in his hand, looking relaxed against a boulder and blowing perfectly shaped spheres into the morning air. 

  
  
  


Too relaxed for anyone’s good. Arthur halted the wagon dead in its tracks. “What’re you doin’ here, Kieran?”

  
  
  


“Oh! I—!” He jumps up, obviously thrown off as his eyes dart everywhere while he struggles to explain. “I was— I’m— uh—”

  
  
  


Arthur knew the answer, but he questions anyway with a frown: “Are you on guard duty?”

  
  
  


“W—Well, no, but—”

  
  
  


“What the hell are you doin’ all the way back here then?”

  
  
  


Kieran sensed Arthur’s scolding coming and he hurried up with getting an explanation out: “Look—I—I needed a break, alright? Folk are harassing me back there and on a normal day, I’d deal with it, but I can’t right now, so I—I’m just— I’m winding down! I ain’t tryin’ t’cause no trouble!”

  
  
  


Arthur wasn’t convinced, and his eyes morphed into slits. “You better not be up to no shit, boy.”

  
  
  


Kieran’s eyes had done the opposite; they bucked. “Wha—? I—”

  
  
  


“Don’t act coy with me,” Arthur hissed. “You better not be thinking ‘bout runnin’ back to Colm ‘cause if I catch you, my face is gon’ be the last thing you see before I blow your brains out!”

  
  
  


“Wh—?” Kieran could only let out a line of noises that sounded a lot like frustration before he stood up. “ You ain’t right in the head!” he points, directly in Arthur’s face.

  
  
  


He threw the reins aside and looked ready to hop off of the wagon and let loose on Kieran. “And you don’t believe me when I tell you I’ll rip your head clean off of your shoulders!”

  
  
  


Kieran put on a face and looked ready to argue with Arthur until a pop went off from the trees and a bullet whizzed past Arthur’s ear. Neither of them have ever remembered flinching so hard. 

  
  
  


“Goddamnit!” Arthur shouts. He wishes he hadn’t because as soon as he did, he hears something like a battle cry from that same spot and the rest of the bullets come. He hops from the wagon and on instinct, he yanks Kieran with him behind the wagon, their best bet for protection. 

  
  
  


Arthur peeped from cover only to find a group of green neckerchiefs, ties, and scarves coming out of the trees with their guns spitting bullets, round after round. _ O’Driscolls. _

  
  
  


Arthur practically ripped his Cattleman revolver from his holster and loaded it as quickly as he could manage, all the while thinking what a splendid time for his weapon to be short on ammo. He looks at Kieran with such anger that his icy blue eyes could’ve been red with fire. “I thought you wasn’t causing no trouble!” he shouts.

  
  
  


“I wasn’t!” Kieran shouts back. They’re both having to shout to hear themselves over the bullets. 

  
  
  


“Then what the hell d’you call this?!” Arthur screams, flinching immediately after that when a bullet lodges into a plank by his ear.

  
  
  


“I don’t know!”

  
  
  


And another one, ripping a perfect hole through a plank in the middle of them. They flinch when shards of wood go flying into their faces. 

  
  
  


“Christ alive!” Arthur exclaims, frustration boiling over. He gets out of cover only for a spare moment to try his luck at disarming or injuring or killing an O’Driscoll, but right when he’s got his aim on one, another shoots at him from another angle and a bullet barely misses him. He throws himself back behind the wagon with a heavy groan. 

  
  
  


“Here—” Kieran holds his hand out as he flattens himself against the wagon wall. “Give me your shotgun; I’ll help ya’!”

  
  
  


Arthur doesn’t remember giving someone such a strange look. “You don’t know a damn thing about fighting!” he says. “Just stay low and out of sight!”

  
  
  


“I  _ was _ in the army, you know!”

  
  
  


Arthur was about to try his luck again until he heard that. He looks at Kieran with bucked eyes and intense confusion. “In the  _ what? _ ”

  
  
  


“Just give it ‘ere!” Kieran reaches for the sawed-off shotgun in Arthur’s off-hand holster and snatches it out, checks for ammo, and gets into proper cover. Arthur looks at him awfully funny; he knows that boy’s about to get himself killed, but he couldn’t focus on that now, not while they’re being ambushed. He quickly decides whatever happens happens. 

  
  
  


Arthur tries again, peeks out of cover, and aims. Pull the trigger on one that had come out of cover at the same as he did. He had three bullets left and uses them the second time he emerges from cover, on two O’Driscolls scouting the wagon to get a better view of their targets. 

  
  
  


As Arthur reloads, even after he’s come to terms with the probable outcome, it resurfaces again; that boy’s about to get killed, and it’ll be untimely, even for a miserable bastard like him. 

  
  
  


He looks over Kieran’s direction to see if it’s already happened, but then he sees the boy holding the shotgun and his own bone-grip Cattleman in a white-knuckled grip, doing just fine and fighting marvelously— maybe even gracefully. He’s gunned down three already and Arthur’s looking at him in awe; never thought he could ever manage it. 

  
  
  


It isn’t until another bullet comes to rip another imprint into the wagon wall that Arthur gets his head back in the game to help Kieran instead of ogling. With their skills combined, Arthur never imagined it in a million years, but they made quick work of the O’Driscolls that oozed from the trees. A minute or more passes into the stand-off, and there were only a few left standing. Arthur shot some and left the rest to run back into the trees like the cowards they are. 

  
  
  


He holsters his Cattleman and immediately calls for Kieran, who isn’t seen, but is heard a few feet away, screaming and shouting. 

  
  
  


Arthur immediately thinks he’s done for, but he runs toward the noise as fast as he could to see if he had a moment to spare him. Revolver in hand, he comes onto the scene expecting the unfortunate sight of an O’Driscoll stabbing the life out of Kieran, but what he really runs up on makes his body lock in complete shock. 

  
  
  


Kieran’s on top of a struggling O’Driscoll, soaking in his red-hot blood as he stabs wound after wound into his chest. He screams because he’s determined to see that mercenary die, and after Kieran drives his knife into his head, his arms and legs stop their flailing and he dies a chaotic death.

  
  
  


Body fully limp, Kieran hops up from the body, panting and wiping blood from his cheeks, eyes so locked onto that dead body that he doesn’t see or sense Arthur’s presence until he opens his mouth to speak.

  
  
  


Arthur almost doesn’t speak; he’s completely thrown off from what he’s just witnessed. “Kieran?”

  
  
  


He doesn’t look up, but he does point to the O’Driscoll’s limp and dismembered body. “I knew that one,” he says. “Declan. If anyone was wantin’ me dead just now, it was that bastard.”

  
  
  


Arthur didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, just observed this uncovered side of this kid he underestimated, and watched as Kieran spat on Declan’s body before holstering his knife.

  
  
  


He finally looks away from the body and instead about their battleground. “We should get this cleaned up,” he says, clearing his throat. 

  
  
  


“No, don’t worry about that,” Arthur speaks up. “You just.. You take the wagon to camp and get yourself cleaned up.”

  
  
  


Kieran nodded, and he does what he’s told, climbing into the wagon. With the click of his tongue, he drives the wagon down the road into camp. Arthur’s eyes followed the boy, and he felt no disgust or disappointment while he did so. He felt something else, something like pride. Something a proud somebody would feel. 

  
  
  


Then Arthur sees Hosea, Dutch, and John coming down the hill toward him. He knows he’s in for a treat because even though they all look disheveled and just come out of bed, Dutch looks ready to eat Arthur alive. 

  
  
  


And so he does. With a glare, he starts his scold. “What in the  _ hell  _ is going on here?” 

  
  
  


Arthur rolls his eyes. “Ain’t I gettin’ too old to scold, Dutch?”

  
  
  


Dutch ignores him, but takes full account of what’s behind him; countless O’Driscoll bodies thrown and shot and lain all types of odd, and one looking dismembered and completely out of order. It only annoys him more— that much was clear when he looked back at Arthur with an intensified glare. “Did you just allow yourself to get followed?”

  
  
  


“I didn’t allow it—”

  
  
  


“Arthur, you’re getting sloppier and more hard-headed by the damn hour,” Dutch keeps going. “How many times do I have to tell you; stay on your guard!”

  
  
  


“They caught me at a bad moment, Dutch,” Arthur argues back. “I don’t really know what you want me to tell you.”

  
  
  


“I want you to tell me that it won’t happen again,” Dutch spat. “It  _ shouldn’t _ happen again. You should be steering clear and being wary of your surroundings—”

  
  
  


“Dutch— I’ve heard this all before,” Arthur quiets him before he starts and doesn’t stop. “I know what I’m doin’. And it won’t happen again; you have my word.”

  
  
  


Dutch went quiet for a moment, just to sneer at him, before letting out a sigh that came from deep within his chest. “I’m trusting you,” he pointed a stiff finger in Arthur’s face before stomping away, back to camp. John had followed after a snicker, but Hosea stayed. 

  
  
  


He walked up to Arthur with a sad smile. “He’s just tired,” he says. “He’ll stop being fussy once he’s gotten his beauty sleep.” 

  
  
  


Arthur nodded as he sighed. “Sure.”

  
  
  


“So what really happened?” Hosea asks, and Arthur felt no need to put up a front, nor to lie. He could let his guard down with his old, old man. 

  
  
  


So he answers: “Damn O’Driscolls ambushed me. I was fussing at Kieran and they just came out of nowhere. It ain’t occurred to me ‘til just now to lead them away from here. Next best thing was to.. take ‘em out here.” Arthur sighed and combed his hand through his hair. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  
  
  


Hosea shook his head and patted him on his broad shoulder; a gesture to let him know that all was well. Afterwards, he hummed. “So that must’ve been why I saw Kieran covered head to toe in blood.”

  
  
  


Arthur huffed, and felt comfortable enough to smile. “Yeah.”

  
  
  


“He fought?”

  
  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  
  


Hosea nodded, looking just as impressed as Arthur was in the moment. “How’d he do?” 

  
  
  


Arthur answered truthfully, smile and awe resurfacing. 

  
  
  


“He did well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, family! ✨Feedback is fucking rad bro :)✨


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO OKAY SO I HAD SO MU C H TO C OVER HERE AND YOU, READER, ARE LOOKING AT 10,000+ WORDS HERE IT'S SO LONG AND I'M SORRY BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY ANYWAY HHHH
> 
> (fucking 2 months update yeterah? good grief. get your shit together ffff)

The months went on at Horseshoe Overlook until, on an overcast day, Arthur and John went rustling for some sheep to get a few bucks at the Valentine auction. It went well; the pair of them go to a comfy saloon to drink to their success, where Dutch conveniently awaited them (and Strauss). Smooth sailing from there until the shit inevitably hits the fan. They’re bushwhacked at the saloon, by Leviticus Cornwall’s men— they robbed one of his trains in the mountains and its come to bite them in the ass— and Strauss gets himself nicked in the leg. By the end of it all, another wound is left in yet another city. Pinkertons were bound to hear word of this, which was the  _ last  _ thing they needed, so it was imperative that they flee. 

  
  
  


The next stop is Clemen’s Point, placed perfectly in the dreaded American south where the air is thick and soupy and the people are air-headed and ignorant; Arthur would never have guessed Dutch taking the lot of them there, but the fact that it was well hidden and easy to defend was a sufficient enough reason to take shelter there. And a great deal of land to spare too.

  
  
  


Once everything and everyone was settled, Dutch asked Arthur to see about Lemoyne’s aristocracy, to “start turning over the soil and the rocks”. He’s been doing what he can; there’s a Gray boy and a Braithwaite girl having a secret affair, and this is scandalous because the Grays and the Braithwaites cannot, under any circumstances, intermingle. Still, Arthur keeps them in mind because maybe they’re useful, maybe they’re not. Who knows.

  
  
  


Anyway, Kieran looks well now; he doesn’t look like he belonged in a soup kitchen no more with the change of clothes. And he’s being doing alright too; after that run-in with the O’Driscolls back at Horseshoe, he’s proven himself to be able-bodied enough for guard duty. He’s only a last-resort though, because Dutch thinks being the stable boy suits him best. The gang could get used to him that way. Arthur still wasn’t sure.

  
  
  


And speak of the devil; He finds he almost rams into the kid while he’s thinking about him. Kieran hurries up with an “excuse me”, however wobbly it comes out. Arthur was still about to tell him off, but the fishing rod in his hands catches his eye.

  
  
  


“You goin’ fishin’?” Arthur asks.

  
  
  


Kieran smiles at the inquire. “I am.”

  
  
  


“Or runnin’ off to Colm O’Driscoll?” Arthur found the perfect time to needle him in that toothy grin while he puts on a face that resembled a provoked bull. 

  
  
  


In turn, various quirks of emotion ripple through Kieran’s face, from the furrowed thin brows to the lip slightly poked. “‘Course not!” he says. That kid took the bait everytime and Arthur didn’t know no better than to laugh at it. 

  
  
  


He jabs Kieran on his unsuspecting shoulder. “I was joking!” he chuckles. 

  
  
  


It took a minute, but he caught on, with a rather strange reaction. “That’s very funny,” he chuckles, stiffly. “Yes, very funny— I save your life, and now ya’ torture me. Ho ho.”

  
  
  


Something about that event being brought up always sent a dagger to Arthur’s pride, and then it was him poking his lip out in a frown. “Shut up!”

  
  
  


Kieran’s lips become sealed, and so does Arthur’s. What follows is a silence filled with an awkward yet understandable tension, but then the kid breaks it by popping a question all sudden-like: “Do you wanna go fishin’ with me? I— I found an interesting spot; we’ll do well.”

  
  
  


A multitude of things catch Arthur off guard in that moment, including the wave of peace that struck him at the question and the question itself. Still, the amount of time it took for Arthur to gain his senses again was short enough for him to clear his throat and answer: “I ain’t a great fisherman.”

  
  
  


“But I am!” Kieran beams, quite literally like the sun. “I’ll teach ya’ somethin’.”

  
  
  


The kid was so confident and so insistent that Arthur found it rather difficult to deny him. The sun was setting too, which meant the decent time for fishing was coming round, and he feels he’s gotta get out of camp if he’s not to be found dead under a table. So, Arthur sighed. “Alright then; you got me.”

  
  
  


Kieran beams even brighter. “Great! Let’s grab our horses and get goin’!” 

  
  
  


This they do, and it’s a short enough ride from camp; they go along Flat Iron Lake’s shore to the latter side of its waters, and it’s here that they hitch their horses on some higher ground. Arthur couldn’t help but notice; Kieran’s smiling a lot for a fishing trip, but Arthur does remember the kid loving fishing with all his heart. Has nothing to do with  _ him  _ being there.

  
  
  


He wonders why he’s even thinking like that— he should stop while he’s ahead, just try to enjoy the day. With an ex-O’Driscoll.

  
  
  


“There’s some beautiful smallmouth here,” Kieran comments while he surveys the area. 

  
  
  


“Bass?” wonders Arthur, and Kieran confirms it with a “sure”.

  
  
  


After Arthur’s gotten down off his horse, Kieran leads them to a spot along the beach. Arthur’s looking for his fishing pole, and Kieran’s already cast his line.

  
  
  


“You do know what your doin’?” he asks, teasingly. “How to cast a line? That sort o’thing?”

  
  
  


Arthur stops digging in his satchel for some bait to give him a look. “‘Course I know how to cast a line!” he says. “Everyone knows that.”

  
  
  


Kieran giggles. “Just makin’ sure. Only you were just makin’ such a fuss ‘bout how bad of a fisherman you are.”

  
  
  


Arthur hums at this interpretation. “It was an attempt at getting you outta my hair, really.” He finds a lonesome bag of crickets in his satchel and puts the flaky bug on his hook. “I only agreed to this ‘cause I knew I’d find a good place to drown you.”

  
  
  


Kieran disguises a cough as a laugh. “Come on, now. Y— You don’t mean that!”

  
  
  


Arthur shoots him a look while he casts his line. “You better believe I mean it.”

  
  
  


His line touches the water, and the waiting commences. Meanwhile, Arthur takes in the view; camp is seen from there, the image reflecting off of the calm water. The sky is turning rosy as the sun retires for the day. The crickets have come out as well, harmonizing with the breathing trees above him. This has to be his favorite thing about fishing, allowing him a moment like this. It’s so enthralling that he doesn’t notice until a little later that he’s been waiting for a good minute on some curious fish.

  
  
  


He turns to his plus-one. “You gettin’ any bites there, O’Driscoll?”

  
  
  


Kieran scoffs, and laughs. “I ain’t an O’Driscoll! I told you fellers a hundred times.”

  
  
  


Arthur chuckles that off too, but no, Kieran wasn’t getting any bites either. They both reckon they’re being too impatient, so they settle for waiting another minute, then another, and another, and another, ‘til the reality settles: they’re going to be there for a little while. Arthur blames it on Kieran, confusing hope for truth. Anyway, they sit in the gravel, poles propped up in their clasped hands as they wait some more. 

  
  
  


All this time (and then some) has passed, and Arthur hadn’t managed a word. Nor has Kieran. On a regular day, this wouldn’t have bothered him— hell, he’d have preferred it— but today is a different story. He feels obligated to converse for some reason, and for once, he doesn’t fight the urge. 

  
  
  


He clears his throat. “How you feeling ‘bout things now?”

  
  
  


Kieran canted his head a little to the side. “Things like what?”

  
  
  


“This gang, the new camp,” Arthur elaborates. “Been a few months now, and everyone seems to have gotten used to you.”

  
  
  


“You think so?” Kieran grins. “Even Dutch?”

  
  
  


Arthur shrugs. “Maybe.”

  
  
  


Kieran turns away, lips sloping as he thinks. “D’ya’ think he trusts me too?”

  
  
  


Arthur threw his head back in a cackle. “Not in the slightest, my friend.”

  
  
  


A heavy sigh replaced the grin that once was. “I can’t win,” Kieran laments. “I promise ‘im loyalty, he says, ‘but ya’ wasn’t loyal to Colm’. If I tell ‘im I ain’t got no allegiance to nobody, he says, ‘how do I know ya’ won’t turn on us then?’”

  
  
  


Certainly sounded like Dutch, particularly at his finest. “I don’t know what you wanna hear,” Arthur chuckles.

  
  
  


Kieran shifts to hug a knee, pouting and resting his head on his leg. “I just wanna be accepted is all.”

  
  
  


Arthur scoffs at the audacity. “You have been! We’re feeding you, and you ain’t tied to a tree no more.”

  
  
  


“I’m still a prisoner, Arthur,” Kieran insists. “Especially with Bill and Sadie whisperin’ in my ear that they’re gon’ kill me in my sleep, a— and I can’t step foot outside o’camp for a second without being scared one o’ Colm’s boys is gon’ come pick me up. You see?”

  
  
  


Arthur hums. “Well, at least _ I’ve _ got your back, against my better judgement.”

  
  
  


Silence returns, along with the ambiance’s sounds. Kieran’s fishing pole goes to twitching; he straightens up quick to prepare for a good yank, but the pole must’ve gone limp again, otherwise he wouldn’t have sighed and gone back to looking somberly bored. 

  
  
  


Arthur felt like laughing at his minor inconvenience, but instead asked another question. “So, who taught you how to fish?”

  
  
  


“My pappy, mostly,” Kieran answers. “I— I lost my mammy and pappy when I was young, to cholera.”

  
  
  


Arthur echoes with a raised brow. “Your  _ mammy?” _

  
  
  


“Like I said, I was real young,” Kieran clarifies once more. “After that, I was on my own pretty much, but.. I knew horses and fishin’.”

  
  
  


Arthur responded to that with a nod. Meanwhile, Kieran took advantage of his silence to ask him the same question: “Who taught  _ you  _ how to fish?”

  
  
  


“Oh—” Arthur looked down at his lap, eyes suddenly drawn to the gravel below him. “Hosea did. Dutch would come and teach me a few tricks, but it was Hosea who taught me the basics. They both taught me a lot o’things, really.”

  
  
  


“So they was the ones who raised ya’?” Kieran smirks. “The closest folk ya’ had to family?”

  
  
  


Arthur was taken aback at his connecting the dots. “Well well!” he beams. “You been doin’ your homework I see.”

  
  
  


Kieran got modest in his own little way, giggling and shrugging. They shared a small laugh before Arthur continued: “Anyway, yes. My momma died when I was a kid, you see. And my daddy.. Well, I watched him die. Hell— If I had the choice, I’d’ve walked up the gallows and hung the bastard my damn self.”

  
  
  


“Hang your pappy?”

  
  
  


Arthur shot Kieran a glance, where he was greeted with a sloped head and an expression that showed deep curiosity. Oddly enough, it took Arthur out of his rising blood pressure, and calmed him enough to get out a response without repressed anger. “He weren’t a good man.”

  
  
  


“Oh,” mouths Kieran, and then came a sorry frown. “I— I hate to hear that, Arthur.”

  
  
  


“I don’t want no pity,” Arthur dismisses him. “What happened happened, and there’s an end to it.”

  
  
  


Kieran left that where it was, and settled for looking off into the horizon beyond the lake. “You know,” he suddenly begins. “It seems like all you lot had rough times growin’ up. I reckon I don’t know much ‘bout that ‘cause  _ me _ , well, I— I often miss home.” Suddenly his head drops to look down in his lap. “Home’s where I got this ring.”

  
  
  


Arthur follows his gaze. His eyes land on a hand, its thumb slowly rotating this golden ring, perfectly fitting its middle finger. The ring still manages to glisten even in the low light, which gets Arthur to lean closer for further inspection. He’s surprised he’s never spotted it until now.

  
  
  


Kieran sees this and is flattered enough to continue: “My mammy was on her death bed when she gave it t’me. Told me to hold on to it, and pass it on to her grandchildren.” He slowly slips it off, and holds it out for Arthur to take. “It’s got our last name on it and everything.”

  
  
  


Arthur doesn’t know why he holds this ring the way he does, like a fragile piece of important history. He almost wants to give it back for fear he might ruin it with his clammy hands and his clumsiness, but Kieran’s watching; he’s got his own hands under Arthur’s bear-like ones for cushion. In a moment of genuine curiosity, he gently— tentatively— adjusts it until he could see what Kieran was talking about. 

  
  
  


“‘Shole ‘nough,” Arthur says under his breath; “Duffy”  _ was  _ inscripted inside of the ring, in beautiful cursive. He’s moved by it almost immediately; it reminds him of the flower he’s got in his cot— his momma’s favorite. It makes him.. relate, in a way. 

  
  
  


Arthur carefully passes the ring back to him. “You come from a happy home, Kieran,” he lets himself smirk. “I’ll admit it, kid; I envy you.”

  
  
  


Kieran smiled, looking as proud as a mama’s boy could be. “Thanks, Arthur.”

  
  
  


Arthur smiles back at him, and it escapes him as to why he holds it, even after the kid’s looked away, with cheeks glowing a subtle rouge as he slips the ring back on his finger. He’s grinning, probably basking in old memories of home, and Arthur supposes he’s satisfied that he’s brought this kid a moment’s happiness in a life of dread. And that grin.. It makes him feel something low in his stomach, but thank God for the yank at his fishing pole because then he didn’t have to wonder why that was.

  
  
  


He’s been feeling too inclined to think lately anyway, about lots of things. Especially about Kieran.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The next day came. Arthur had been given a lead from one of Trelawny’s associates (a peculiar station clerk called Alden) to see about. It was a stagecoach riding through the quiet Scarlett Meadows, and he came away with a decent stash. The take was given to camp of course, since Arthur saw no reason to take any for himself. And on his way to the auburn box, somehow he walked right past an abnormality; Micah was seated on a stool right outside Dutch’s lodging, looking a little too comfortable. 

  
  
  


Arthur surveyed him, almost to scrutinize him, but he didn’t feel like starting a quarrel. He settled for a simple greeting instead: “Micah.”

  
  
  


And he settled for a rather unexpected one in return. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

  
  
  


It’s the first time that Micah’s ever caught Arthur off guard like that. “I don’t think that line of thought suits you and me very well.”

  
  
  


He smirked. “That’s because, cowpoke, you are a man of profoundly limited intelligence.”

  
  
  


That definitely sounded more like Micah. “No doubt,” Arthur could only entertain. 

  
  
  


“While you and the old man and Dutch have been runnin’ around, digging us ever deeper into shit, ol’ Mister Pearson might’ve gone and lightened the load a little,” Micah went on. “Ain’t you curious?”

  
  
  


Arthur shrugs. “I guess.” He scans the area for “ol’ Mister Pearson” and sees the poor man approaching eventually, the poor man that’s been dragged into Micah’s ever-growing world of bullshit. Right when he comes, Dutch came round at the same time, and greets the three of them: “Gentlemen.”

  
  
  


“Dutch!” Micah greeted, then he turned his gaze to Pearson. “You tell ‘im, fat man.”

  
  
  


“It’s peace, Dutch,” Pearson begins. “The O’Driscolls! I mean, there’s a way.”

  
  
  


Dutch responds from inside his tent, fiddling with stray papers— bonds waiting to be dealt with, perhaps **— ** and searching for a cigar. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  
  
  


Micah gets impatient, and sends Pearson further forward with the push of his hand. “Get the words out properly, fat man!”

  
  
  


And “fat man” obliges. “I met a couple of the O’Driscolls boys on the road into town. Now somehow things ain’t get too ugly, and we got to talking. They suggested a parley, to end things! Like gentlemen.”

  
  
  


Dutch looked up from what he was fiddling with to give Pearson a look. “Gentlemen?” he echoes. “Colm O’Driscoll? Have you lost your minds?”

  
  
  


Micah’s hands flew up like white flags; a thing he does whenever he knew he was in the wrong. “You’re always telling us, Dutch: do what needs to be done, but don’t fight wars ain’t worth fightin’.”

  
  
  


“They want a parley?” Suddenly goes Hosea, a few feet away sat at a table with his sharp nose buried in his evening paper. Arthur figured he would be listening because that’s what his old man did best. “It’s a trap,” says he, and Arthur concurred.

  
  
  


“Well, of course, it’s probably a trap,” Micah hesitates to admit. “But what have we got to lose finding out?”

  
  
  


Arthur answers that: “Getting shot.”

  
  
  


“We ain’t getting shot ‘cause you’ll be protecting us,” Micah elaborates further on his outlandish idea. “If it’s a trap, you’ll shoot the lot of them. If it ain’t a trap— that slim chance..”

  
  
  


“I don’t see the point in any of this,” Dutch shakes himself as he thinks aloud. He’s right to think this way; it’s a foolish idea and so obviously a set-up, but while the man finds the nearest table to rest against as he still decides to ponder, typical Micah adds fuel to the fire, insisting. “It’s a chance we gotta’ take.”

  
  
  


There’s a pause before Dutch lifts himself, eyebrows knitted at a thought. “I killed Colm’s brother,” he began. “Long time ago.”

  
  
  


He takes a sudden look to the side, a too familiar look to the side, eyes dark with an unearthed sadness. “Then he killed a woman I loved dear.”

  
  
  


He seemed to have been psychologically reliving the moment, and Arthur admits; it was a sad time, but then Micah seized his chance to shoot from the hip. “As you say, it’s a long time ago, Dutch.”

  
  
  


He spoke with such empathy that it was almost repulsive to Arthur— it wasn’t coming from the right place. But of course, Dutch didn’t see that and believed the thin veneer. Sudden-like, his brown eyes once deep with sadness began to glim with determination. Arthur did not like that sudden shift and unfortunately he was right to feel that way— 

  
  
  


“Let’s go then,” Dutch tells Micah. “You and me with Arthur protecting us. No one else.”

  
  
  


Arthur could roll his eyes far up his cranium, could rip his hair out like a madman, but he won’t; he loved Dutch, and would happily die for him, hard as it is to admit it right now. He looks to Hosea, who’s frozen in fiery frustration. He looked ready to let loose on his impulsive Dutch, but never mind. He saved a calmer look for Arthur, having a clear message in his eyes: “Just be careful.” 

  
  
  


And his dear son would try. Arthur turned on his heel to follow his party, with a deep sigh escaping his broad chest. “Fine.”

  
  
  


“Mount up then, Morgan,” goes Micah, walking at a faster pace than either of them to his steed; he’s too excited for anyone’s damn good. It makes Arthur want to turn around, but he’s got to remember to tell himself that he’s doing this on Dutch’s behalf and  _ not  _ Micah’s.

  
  
  


Kieran had his horse (once again, a presence that eased him a little in a testing hour), in the middle of brushing undesirable curls in its mane. Arthur held his hand out for the reins, and Kieran gave them to him, molasses-like. He seemed lost in thought and looked miserable, but Arthur hadn’t the time for asking why. He mounted up and was two clicks from spurring his steed into a trot but— 

  
  
  


“Good luck then.”

  
  
  


Kieran seemed to have been listening. No wonder he looked more unnerved than usual, more unnerved than Arthur was. Why it made him feel a little funny to see that look on his face he didn’t know, but he didn’t care to, and sent his horse trotting after Micah and Dutch like he meant to. 

  
  
  


The three of them take a lengthy ride through Scarlett Meadows and into the Heartlands. Colm’s arrival is to be expected here in the plane, or as Micah unironically put it, “the lion’s den”. Arthur catches the eyes of some looker-ons— O’Driscolls, to be precise— and it makes him feel even more uneasy. 

  
  
  


Micah rears his horse into a stop, and Dutch follows suit. “Alright, cowpoke, you’re gonna peel off up ahead,” he tells Arthur. “We’ll be meeting down on the plane. Find a spot where you can keep an eye on things.”

  
  
  


Arthur grumbled his compliance to the order. “However this shakes out, let’s aim to meet back at the fork in the road afterwards.”

  
  
  


“We’ll be there, partner,” Micah replies, and he’s off, Dutch following. Meanwhile, Arthur makes his way to some higher ground, high enough to help him observe “the lion’s den” through the scope of his sniper rifle. Fortunate enough for him and his group, this spot was found. Rifle now loaded and ready to go strapped against his back, he sets at monitoring Dutch and Micah with his binoculars to start. 

  
  
  


And Colm does in fact come round, with two mercenaries— his best men, one could only assume. And by God, Colm was just as ugly as Arthur remembered, even from a distance. All slimy and lithe and like a serpent; Arthur felt icky just looking at the rat bastard. Alas, he must focus on Colm’s men. If they tried pulling any shit, he will pull the trigger faster than they could say “Jack Robinson”.

  
  
  


Colm and Dutch were drawing nearer, with gritted teeth and fiery grimaces. Colm’s men were prepared for gunfire in reaction, reaching steadily for their guns, and Arthur was applying more and more pressure on the trigger the closer they got to their weaponry.

  
  
  


One of them was getting too close for comfort. Arthur’s finger was ready for the pull, but then the sound of grass rustling behind him makes him flinch. 

  
  
  


His head swings behind him only to meet the butt of a gun surging toward him, and after that, complete darkness. 

  
  
  


A sudden chill to his core is what brings him back to the light. His eyes pop open and immediately shift into slits with the bright world and the pain at the forefront of his head; it felt like his brain and heart had switched places. He blinks a few times, and by his third one, three wicked shadows with brilliant shades of green hanging from their necks came to hover over him.

  
  
  


Arthur knew immediately, and swallowed; he’s in the O’Driscolls’ custody. 

  
  
  


“Hello, sugar!” a voice loud enough to ring his ears greets him. “You ain’t dead, is ya’? Not yet anyway!”

  
  
  


The sole of a boot came down on his leg with an unbelievable power. A shout rips from Arthur’s throat, and it brings on the onslaught of more kicks, more jabs, more punches. Convulsing and screaming, he thinks it won’t end, but a punch to his nose ends it. 

  
  
  


He resurfaces again later, this time with throbbing pains  _ all over him. _ The internal and external bruises on him causes a sharp pain with every minute movement. He tries not to think about it, however, because from his view of the red and purple world, the coast looked clear for escape. The men who were sitting at a campfire with their backs turned from him gave him all the more reason. 

  
  
  


Arthur exhales sharply before he flipped on his stomach, first to crawl, then to prowl, and finally to full out high-tailing it. He’s allowed a few seconds into running and he thinks he’s getting far— 

  
  
  


“He’s escaping! Shoot ‘im!”

  
  
  


His body was repenting vigorous movement, but Arthur couldn’t do anything different; he ran faster. But he obviously didn’t get that far because the next thing he knows, a bullet tears at the muscle and fractures the bone in his leg, sending him face-first into the cold and damp grass.

  
  
  


“Did I kill ya’?” a O'Driscoll had to ask from behind him, and it elicits a heavy groan from Arthur as he flips on his back. 

  
  
  


“Not yet,” he grimaces, because with the pain so intense all over his body, he almost wishes they had. 

  
  
  


Arthur lays there, lump in his throat as he groans at the shrapnel cooking the flesh in his leg and the throbs growing in the rest of him. Those ghastly O’Driscolls hover over him once more, looking more nasty than before with the wicked smiles on their faces. “No,” one snickers. “No, of course not. But I will.”

  
  
  


The barrel of a shotgun rests on his shoulder after that, and at the sound of that click, Arthur was squirming with fear because he knew those men weren’t going to spare him. 

  
  
  


And they didn’t. The impact came and the pain was so unimaginable that it knocked him out in a cold sweat. 

  
  
  


* * *

A rush of adrenaline and then a darker world.

  
  
  


The only thing lighting up this matte-umber world was a dim and lonesome candle. The pressure in his head grew more intense— intense enough to feel  _ heavy _ . His lips were horribly chapped and dry, his throat lacked all moisture, his arms that were supposed to be below him were above his head (he could barely feel his left one, soaked with blood), and his feet that were meant to be below him were above him. There was also some tight-something clawing at his ankles; he couldn’t make out what. 

  
  
  


Blinking slowly and moving a little got him a sense of what he was wearing; a union suit that practically suffocated him with how tight it was. He weakly moved his legs and once again got that tearing at the cartilage of his ankles. He moved to reach out to something in a moment of thought, and found he could touch the dusty cold floor. Then it dawned on him: he was strung up on some shackles, hung up like a side of beef on a rack.

  
  
  


His pride shattered at that point, but after a cough, he realized fatigue was too great a state to feel anything but tired. He thinks he’s gotten feverish, because on top of that, he feels like he’s floating. 

  
  
  


He licks his chapped lips and swallows spit in attempt to put moisture in his desert-like throat, but it brought him no pleasure; he coughed heartily, and a groan followed it. It must’ve been loud enough to send someone coming ‘cause he heard footsteps not too long after. 

  
  
  


His bleary vision brought him no closure as to who that someone was, but his hearing did: “Arthur Morgan. It’s good t’see ya’.”

  
  
  


Arthur sighed, and fought hard against his throat and his fatigue to respond, “Hello, Colm.”

  
  
  


The serpent came in with a lantern and a bowl of stew. The food made Arthur’s stomach churn just looking at it; everything looked disgusting once Colm touched it. His greasy silver hair and bleak white skin glows in the lantern’s light, which gave his captive no choice but to look in his eye when he asked him, “How’s the wound?” 

  
  
  


Arthur wouldn’t give Colm the satisfaction of knowing he truly hurt him, so he responds with a weak smirk and feigned nonchalance. “I hardly feel it,” he wobbles. 

  
  
  


“You will,” Colm nods, and his spoon riddled with broth and sauce raises out of its bowl to drive into Arthur’s gaping wound. “Septic; it ain’t nice.”

  
  
  


Arthur’s fright grants him the unlikely ability to fight back, and by the end of the struggle, he’s subject to believe that he’s just used up the last dregs of his strength. The sudden tiredness gets him to feel horribly light in the head and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself conscious. 

  
  
  


When he barely opens his eyes, Colm’s lapping around him. “Now, tell me,” he begins. “Fine gun like you.. Why you still runnin’ around with ol’ Dutch? Could come round with me and make real money.”

  
  
  


“It ain’t about the money, Colm,” Arthur weakly informs.

  
  
  


Colm chuckles. “Oh, no,” he shakes himself. “It’s Dutch’s famous charisma—”

  
  
  


Suddenly, what little wind is knocked out of Arthur from a sharp heel ramming into his ribs. He wanted so bad to withhold his shout, but even a “fine gun” like him had his limits. 

  
  
  


While he swung helplessly on his shackles, Colm was hissing at him, almost exactly like a snake: “You killed a whole bunch o’my boys at Six Point Cabin!”

  
  
  


“I ain’t got no clue what you talkin’ ‘bout,” Arthur feigned ignorance, perhaps to avoid any more suffering. 

  
  
  


“Oh, you lie, my friend—” but it only brought on more trouble; suddenly the cold metal of a revolver’s barrel comes to rest on his hammering forehead. “And I thought Dutch preached truth!”

  
  
  


Arthur swallowed as he frowned. “Let me go, Colm, and end all this crap between you two— we all got real problems now!”

  
  
  


“The way I see it—” the gun leaves, holstered. “They get him, they forget about me.”

  
  
  


“They ain’t the forgetting sort,” Arthur croaks. “If I were you, I’d run as soon as I had the money.”

  
  
  


“I know you would,” Colm nods, and a crooked smile inches onto his ugly face. “But see, we lure an angry Dutch in to rescue ya’, grab alla’ ya’ and hand ya’ in, then disappear.”

  
  
  


Arthur furrows his brow. “So you only met wit’ him to grab  _ me?” _

  
  
  


Colm cackles, straight from his lithe chest. “Of course! Oh, he gon’ be so mad!” he beams. “He gon’ come raging over here, and a whole lot o’ya’, and the law’ll be waiting for ‘im.”

  
  
  


He doubled-over laughing, and Arthur, so rattled to the core with shock, just watches with his bloodshot eyes. “Oh, Arthur,” beams Colm, and he flings his gun out of its holster to catch it in his hand, the butt of it facing the roof. That wicked smile resurfaces, and he passionately tells Arthur, “I missed you.”

  
  
  


Colm brings the butt of his weapon down onto Arthur’s already aching rib. He never remembered the butt of a revolver being so  _ sharp; _ Arthur cries out to each jab and laments by the end of his suffering. His side pulsates to the precise rhythm of the hits once lain there, and it hurts so much. His eyes water and his teeth grind and Colm’s cackling again, as if Satan himself had risen from the depths and stood before him. 

  
  
  


Colm leaves, taking his stew, his happiness, and his lantern with him, and once the orange light fades away, Arthur lets go of a held breath with a heavy groan. A stray tear falls into his hairline on its own accord.

  
  
  


Now he’s gotta figure out what to do. He wasn’t any use to man or beast right now, but he’s got to try. He’s been a damn fool; he shouldn’t have let his guard down— he can feel Dutch’s disappointment now, but never-mind. His mistake is his business, and he won’t let the gang be paid out for his folly. Not Dutch, not Hosea, hell— not even Kieran. 

  
  
  


Poor Kieran; they chose this life, not him. All that poor kid wanted was some purpose. It wasn’t his intent to rob and kill and lie, and he hasn’t done a single wrong in his life. He doesn’t deserve to be picked up by the law, and Arthur won’t let it happen— he wouldn’t forgive himself if it did. 

  
  
  


And in a fit of getting angrier just thinking about the injustice, he finds it’s the summit of his motivation. He doesn’t know why that is, but in a desperate situation such as this, anything goes. It’s only a question of how he was going to act. 

  
  
  


It dizzies him to do it, but he whipped his head around to scope out his surroundings. To the left of him is a table, riddled with what looked like firewood, and to the right of him, the light of a wax candle. However dim, something next to it glistened. Arthur squinted at it and after a moment, he could see what that faintly glistening thing was: a metal file. 

  
  
  


It was obvious that these fools were not smart enough to hide a file from their prisoner, but never-mind that; Arthur took his chances. He couldn’t reach the file by simply stretching his arm, so the next best thing was to swing himself on his shackles until he got close. 

  
  
  


With that, he got a decent grip on the cold cement floor and pushed himself weakly to the left, then to the right, then to the left, and to the right. Fighting through dizziness, muscle cramps, and rusty metal tearing at his ankles, he eventually developed good enough momentum to finally grab the file in one fell swoop. 

  
  
  


His side opposed him sitting up as far as he could to reach the shackles’ lock, and so did his head, creating stars in his eyes, but he tried tuning all of it out to focus on his goal. He stabbed the file into the lock and curled it around until the shackles gave out. It took a moment, but eventually he hits the ground with his long legs falling on either side of him, free. 

  
  
  


The impact left his body aching worse, but nothing awakened more than his shoulder, of which he thought he lost feeling in. At least the pain reminded him of its infection— he’s got to do something about it. 

  
  
  


Arthur shakes like a newborn deer as he gets up, and limps to find treatment in the dusty and murky basement. There’s a chair in the corner waiting to be used, and he drags it toward the table where the candle lay. He flops himself on the weak seat, taking the metal file with him. 

  
  
  


What the table presents him with is a shotgun shell, a handkerchief, and of course, the candle. No type of tonic or provision, and with the metal file buried in his shaking hand, he swallows as it dawns on him: he’ll have to self-operate.

  
  
  


Exhaling shakily, Arthur brings the metal file in his trembling hand to the fire omitting from the candle. It stays there until it becomes a vivid red, heated. Then he stabs his wound and gets in deep; he didn’t allow himself to think about it, otherwise he would’ve hesitated.

  
  
  


But he wished he would have thought it through, because he’s struggling with holding back tears and whimpers as he began moving the searing metal inside his wound, riddled with shrapnel. His teeth are gritted tightly together and his eyes are slammed shut just to relieve tension. 

  
  
  


He kept the file twisting and curling inside until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He groaned when he finally removed it, hoping it wasn’t loud enough to alert anyone up top. He tossed the file onto the table with a light clatter and seized the handkerchief in the same second to catch the blood trickling down his arm. 

  
  
  


Once the bleeding stopped, he reached for the shotgun shell, lain aimlessly. Arthur gripped the brass base of the shell between his teeth to reveal the flammable shot inside; he used it to sprinkle on his wound before tossing it elsewhere. 

  
  
  


The shot tickled his flesh, and adrenaline was settling deep in Arthur’s stomach when he looked to the candle. He needed it for the proper burn, and quite the burn it will be—  _ exactly  _ like hellfire, but he must do it. 

  
  
  


He finally got the candle in his hand, and it trembled on its way to his sparkling shoulder. Arthur tried looking away as he inched it closer and closer to his wound. One single brush of the fire’s embers and he flinched too hard, put it back on the table as he let go of the shallow breath he was holding. If that one ember came with so much pain, imagine what the whole flame could do..

  
  
  


Christ alive— one of the bravest men in the Van der Linde gang and he couldn’t handle castration. Arthur’s eyes shut as he heaves a sigh, so close to succumbing to a helplessness until he shoves the candle into his shoulder without thought. 

  
  
  


It certainly felt like what he had feared, like the moon and the stars and the planets came crashing down on him. His mouth fell open to scream into the murky air, but what came out was a groan, scratching at his weak throat. The candle had left his shoulder throbbing angrily, omitting a tiny smoke. 

  
  
  


The flame settled in his wound, jet-black with gunpowder and dried blood, and Arthur rested a weary hand upon it, taking the deepest breath as the adrenaline was slowly wearing away. 

  
  
  


“I don’t wanna go to Mexico, I wanna go home.  _ Home!” _

  
  
  


An irish voice lamented from above, and it sounded too close for comfort. Arthur ended his moment of peace to limply hide somewhere, and quick. He had a feeling that O’Driscoll would come down to the attic, and sure enough— “Hold on, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  
  
  


While their footsteps were coming closer, Arthur flung himself against the wall by the entrance, flattening himself against it so he wouldn’t be seen. And the man didn’t see him, but what he did see was the shackles with no man hanging from them. “What the hell?” he goes. 

  
  
  


Arthur launched himself onto him then, flinging an arm around his neck and a hand on his hairy mouth, squeezing tight. While the O’Driscoll protested, Arthur twists him around until he gets the desired pop. The man in his arms was limp at that, and Arthur decided to take his throwing knives before letting him fall onto the cement floor.

  
  
  


That was one man, and he’s sure there’ll be plenty more. 

  
  
  


And Arthur was right; on his way up the steps, two more men walk past the attic, armed for trouble. One went to the left and the other went to the right, and Arthur had three throwing knives; perhaps he can use one, starting with the left man.

  
  
  


He crawls up the stairs, staying bent over and watching his head. The attic had ended, and Arthur slumped against a wall, using it for cover. He peeped from that side and saw the left man still patrolling on the other, and while his back was turned, Arthur swung his throwing knife as hard as he could manage at the O’Driscoll. He was surprised to find he didn’t miss, and the man fell with the weapon hanging from spare pieces of brain matter.

  
  
  


There was an orange light coming from the woodland— another man. Arthur was sure he would miss if he threw the knife from his range, so he got closer in spite of his body protesting at the sudden movement. The man was taking slow steps, patrolling the road, and Arthur was following close behind. He didn’t attack him until they were somewhere dark and on their own; he lodged his knife into his ear and he slumped onto the ground once Arthur let him go.

  
  
  


Arthur had one more throwing knife to use, and his next guinea pig would be a O'Driscoll by a roughly built shack enjoying a cigarette. He was still in the woodland when he spotted him, and he could hide behind a tree while he launched a throwing knife at the unsuspecting man. He fell at impact. 

  
  
  


Arthur was empty-handed now, and was hoping that, as he trudged to a shack, he wouldn’t be greeted by any more men. At this shack, a wooden chest lay outside of it, and inside, he found his weaponry and his satchel. Arthur hummed as he put his belongings back on his person; he thought they were lost forever.

  
  
  


Looking up from the shack, he saw one more O’Driscoll by the horses— by  _ his  _ horse, to be precise. He was pleased to see he ain’t ran off, but slightly irritated to see an O’Driscoll by him. Arthur would’ve shot the bastard, but he would’ve scared his mount and probably alert other men nearby. He used a spare throwing knife instead. 

  
  
  


A familiar feeling hits him when he struggles his way up his horse, that relief at knowing you’ve won, and suddenly you’re more tired than you started. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off, or that inner peace becoming too peaceful, but Arthur had his horse in a vigorous trot to God knows where as soon as possible, all the while slumping on his horse’s crest and begging him to “get him home.”

  
  
  


He forces himself to fight against hooded eyelids and weakness, until he believes he’s far enough from the O’Driscolls, then he lets himself succumb to exhaustion.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Arthur wakes up, more tired and weak, more light-headed and dizzy and aching than before. Nonetheless, it was a consolation to see his horse had taken him back to camp without help. Perception made home look like the night sky; the lanterns and lights were stars, the trees were the clouds, and the crowd of people gathered in front of Dutch’s tent was the eclipse. 

  
  
  


His mount slowed to a stop eventually, and Arthur dismounted, though the fatigue and dizziness caused him to fall on his way down. He slumped on his back and to the damp ground, letting out a groan that held pain and exhaustion. 

  
  
  


Behind his palpitating heartbeat in his ears is a distant hysteria before it dissolves into a bunch of gasps, accompanied by a few shocked exclamations of his name. For some reason, the one that stands out is Kieran’s.

  
  
  


A shadow comes to look at Arthur, then two more follow, then three, then four, until a circle of black develops around him; oddly enough, even the shadows felt like home. Three more shadows come round then, closer than the rest. Arthur blinked a few times to clear his vision, and the shocked and worried faces of the gang reveal. The first face to unlock was Kieran’s, however, and his face was weirdly sweeter to look at than the rest of them. 

  
  
  


Still, Arthur groaned when he met the eyes of that Dutch. “I told you it was a set-up, Dutch—!”

  
  
  


“Oh, my boy—” Dutch bent down on his knees. “My dear boy— what?”

  
  
  


“T—They got me,” Arthur weezed. “But I—I got away.”

  
  
  


He felt Dutch’s warm and calloused hand come to rest gently on his lukewarm forehead. “Yeah, that you did.” He spoke with no color in his face, yet Kieran seemed more white at Arthur’s state— whiter than a bed sheet. 

  
  
  


“Come on, we’ve gotta get him to bed,” Hosea comes into view, sounding anxious and definitely looking anxious. Arthur feels a pair of hands feel under his head and shoulders before he’s slowly lifted to sit up. While the blood once clogged in his head clears, both of his arms are flung across Hosea and Kieran’s shoulders, and Kieran is urging Pearson to come and lift his legs while he’s sitting there apologizing.

  
  
  


“It is a bit late for apologies!” Dutch frowns, and takes the job from the stunned cook. He grabs Arthur’s left leg, and he thinks it’s Swanson who comes just in time to grab the other. 

  
  
  


“He was gonna set the law on us!” Arthur continues through his grinding teeth because the sudden hauling and pulling and touching of his aching body is a lot for his mind to register. 

  
  
  


Dutch scoffs at the information. “Of course he was.” He follows this comment with a countdown to three, and suddenly the four of them have lifted Arthur off the ground. A scream escapes him because someone pulled at his bad shoulder wrong, all the while his head is spinning at the multiple voices in his ears; Mrs. Grimshaw’s screaming at the crowd to disperse, the older men are grunting at Arthur’s weight, the gang behind him is nervously chattering, and Kieran is reminding him softly that he’s safe now. 

  
  
  


Arthur is floating before he’s finally at his cot, and his body goes limp when his back touches his bed. What his senses allow him at that point is this: Hosea has stepped away to sharply give some something to do, and others to clear off, Dutch is drawing up the privacy drapes, and Kieran is hovering over him, still with that soft and glossy look in his eye. 

  
  
  


“What we doin’ with ‘im, Dutch?” he asks, and Arthur doesn’t know why it does something funny to him when he sees he’s broken the persistent eye contact with him. 

  
  
  


Dutch swipes him a look as he wipes his eyebrow, glistening with a mere sweat, and he pauses a moment to think. He gives Arthur a look then, scanning him, and he huffs. “Well, let’s start by getting this rag off of him so he can breathe.”

  
  
  


Kieran mimics his huff. “‘Course.”

  
  
  


And so, Dutch moves from the corner of the tent to Arthur’s bedside, and Kieran reaches for the buttons of his tight union suit. Arthur flinches for a lack of understanding until Dutch raises his hands like white flags— “Peace, son.”— and he wraps a hand around the nape of Arthur’s neck.

  
  
  


He sits him up while Kieran is busy tearing at the suit’s thin fabric to get it off of Arthur. He struggles, but luckily, Hosea comes in just in time to help. Together, they tug and pull at the suit until it’s off; Arthur lets out a deep breath at the way the cool air hits his body, almost to oxygenate. Meanwhile, Hosea hands the dismembered union suit to Tilly outside. 

  
  
  


“Okay,” Dutch nods, a gesture of certainty that look real uncertain in that moment. “Kieran, go and fetch some bandages— they’re in Strauss’ wagon—” Hosea returns with a bottle in his hand, and Dutch turns to him next. “Uh—Hosea, bring some cold towels; we’re gonna try to break this fever.”

  
  
  


While Kieran’s already ran out, Hosea nods. “Right.” Then he puts this bottle in Dutch’s free hand. “Meanwhile, see if that’ll do him for the moment.”

  
  
  


Hosea leaves, and Dutch gives the bottle a glance before he returns to Arthur, lifting his head again. “Glug this down, Arthur,” he tells him, and Arthur tries his best. The liquid is cooling, every drop tickling his sand-dry throat. He feels the drink in his back and in his veins, and he’s refreshed after every gulp; it feels like a health tonic.

  
  
  


Dutch makes him swallow the bottle down until Hosea and Kieran return. By that point, the bottle is at its last dregs and Dutch pulls away (a pity for Arthur), gently laying him back down on his pillow. Hosea is working on soaking and writhing a towel, and Kieran has already started wrapping bandages around Arthur’s wounded shoulder. 

  
  
  


“Someone has to sit up with him,” Dutch tells Hosea, returned helplessly to the tent’s corner. “I suppose all we can do now is break his fever and let him rest, but..  _ anything  _ could happen. He’s in a bad fix.”

  
  
  


“I know,” Hosea sighs, wringing the towel one last time. “I’ll sit with him, don’t worry.”

  
  
  


“No, I’ll do it.”

  
  
  


Eyes have fallen on Kieran, who only just finished wrapping roll after roll of bandages on Arthur’s shoulder. He’s determined enough that he takes the cold towel out of Hosea’s still hands and does his job for him. He’s got the towel under Arthur’s chin in a hurry, and while the sickly man hisses at the sudden sensation, Dutch and Hosea’s quirked eyebrows remain. 

  
  
  


“Are you sure, son?” asks Dutch. “You’ll be with him for a while.”

  
  
  


“That’s alright, sir,” Kieran says. “Matter o’fact, I’d like to see ‘im through the worst if I may.”

  
  
  


There’s a pause, but eventually, Hosea nods. “Very well. Take good care of him then; we need him back on his feet soon.”

  
  
  


“I will.” The towel moves to an unsuspecting armpit. “You’ve got my word.”

  
  
  


The men give the kid one last look before Hosea takes Dutch by his unsure shoulders out of the tent. Meanwhile, Arthur’s left conflicted, because he wants to protest this odd thing that Kieran’s doing. It’s weird, or.. It was supposed to be. For some reason, Arthur didn’t think it weird exactly, but comforting in a sense. In fact, at the daunting realization that it really was just him and Kieran in this tent, he felt a deep security, a gut-feeling that he was going to be truly nurtured. 

  
  
  


And Kieran didn’t make it any better with the way he was talking: “You’re a’right now, mister. You’re home.” He said it in a soft voice, that same softness that he greeted him with. It made Arthur relax; it truly did feel like home. Why was that? He wanted to know, wanted to question, but after a little minute, Kieran was finished cooling him down, and when he threw Arthur’s weighted cover upon his body, sleep came heavy. 

* * *

  
  


A week passes since the night Arthur was taken ill, and throughout said week, he would zone in and out of consciousness, fall in and out of fevers (small and intense ones), all the while slowly but surely healing. It would be remembered as a tough run by the week’s Saturday, and by then, Arthur was able to stay up, but not for a long time; he frequently needs naps. 

  
  
  


He wakes up early, with the gang’s early-risers who caused a slight commotion behind the tent’s drapes. After a decent yawn, he forces himself to sit up (in spite of the way his shoulder still ached sharply). The first things to greet him that morning were a bowl filled with blood-tinted water, bandages, a slit of sunlight peeking through the drapes and reflecting off of his feet, and a chair pulled up close to his bedside. 

  
  
  


He isn’t sure why the chair is, but he thinks the one at fault walks in not too long after; Hosea. He’s come with a tin bowl of something and a sweet smile. “I’d knew you’d be up eventually, so I thought I’d bring you something to start your day.”

  
  
  


Hosea does take the seat by Arthur’s bedside, meanwhile putting this thermal bowl in Arthur’s lap. It warms his legs and he huffed at the food he’s been brought. “Stew, eh?” he smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “How jolly.”

  
  
  


Hosea catches on to that, and smirks. “Well, I’ve seasoned it myself this time, so hopefully it won’t taste all  _ that  _ bad.”

  
  
  


Now Arthur’s joy is genuine. “Hopefully,” he chuckles, and the men share a small laugh before Arthur collects a beef chunk and a potato onto his spoon; first bite tastes good, better than what Pearson churns out everyday, but he decides not to say that out loud. 

  
  
  


While he dines some more—and isn’t disappointed for once— Hosea shifts more comfortably in his seat before beginning conversation. “How you feelin’ then?”

  
  
  


Arthur sips on some broth before answering. “Still ain’t right, but I’m living.” 

  
  
  


“So, for lack of a better term, you feel a bit like Swanson?”

  
  
  


Arthur laughs; too quick for anyone’s good. “I suppose so.”

  
  
  


Hosea smiles. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  
  
  


And suddenly comes Kieran through the drapes, hands full with ointment and tonics. He freezes when he sees who has accompanied Arthur in his tent, but luckily his guest doesn’t make it awkward for either of them. “Ah,” he says, then, as if he were expecting him, he gestured toward the table he was resting his forearm on. “You can leave all that here, Kieran.”

  
  
  


Kieran zones out of his shock to hurriedly do what he was told, dropping his toppling luggage onto the table. He had to stand a few bottles up before he cast a quick glance to Hosea and Arthur, who watched him. He looked out of place under their eyes and quickly expressed that. “I—I’ll take my leave then. Let me know if y’all need anything.”

  
  
  


“Sure,” Hosea nods, then the kid slips away, just as quick as he appeared. Arthur could feel his frayed nerves from his bed. He looked to his old man to see if he sensed the same thing, but instead he was greeted with half of a smile. “You know,” he began. “That Kieran has refused to leave your side all week. Hasn’t slept or eaten. And he’s left the horses to starve too— Dutch had to give Sadie his job.”

  
  
  


Perhaps that’s why his nerves seemed frayed. Still, Arthur laughed at Hosea’s information. “Bet she hates that.”

  
  
  


“Oh, no, she seems willing,” Hosea dismissed. “Though I’m willing to bet she still wants to knock Kieran down and serve his brains as fritters.”

  
  
  


Arthur gets tickled once more, but he manages to control it before he takes another bite out of his stew. Poor Sadie, itching for more fight, but instead, she gets the boring task of monitoring stallions all day. Kieran shouldn’t be wasting his time, trying to nurse him when there were plenty of others like Tilly or Mary-Beth or even Hosea to do the job. 

  
  
  


Still, it was awful flattering that the kid went through the trouble. He’s let his appearance go as well; he’s tied his hair up as a makeshift nurse. It looked effortless— well, at least from Arthur’s perspective. Unfortunately enough, being in that bed for a week gave him a lot of time to think like that. Too much time, and especially about Kieran. 

  
  
  


It had been going on for a while now— for much longer than he himself knew— and it was getting humiliating at this point. He used to ignore it all, the way he’d get softer around Kieran, the way his mere existence made him feel lighter than the air, or the way his stomach was fluttering now just thinking of him.

  
  
  


Of course, that may have been natural, but every little detail he unearthed about Kieran only fueled the fire. He saw a homely face, a flattering personality, and a kid that stood three inches taller than the average man, right up there with Arthur. They were alike and different in many ways and that was fine that it drew him in, just not at this scale. Not to the point where it’d make him feel like a fool, and awfully mixed up, almost as if he was going through another Mary. 

  
  
  


“You ok, Arthur?”

  
  
  


Hosea’s voice quickly took him out of his thoughts and back to reality, where he was stuck staring a hole into his stew with an intensely furrowed brow. Arthur shook himself, huffing out a laugh. “Sorry,” he chuckled, combing a hand through his unruly hair. “I was miles away.”

  
  
  


“I could see that,” Hosea said. “You really seemed out of it there. What in your head has got you like that?”

  
  
  


Arthur knew Hosea was his confidant, but he didn’t want to admit how angry he was getting with himself, how confused and disgusted, maybe to maintain both of their dignities, so he feigned a calm mind. “Nothin’.”

  
  
  


“‘Cept it ain’t nothing.” His old man was too intuitive, and it made Arthur dip his head in defeat. Hosea went on meanwhile: “It won’t do you no good to hide things from me— you know this, Arthur. Now go on, tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll see what I can do.”

  
  
  


Arthur sighed, going to rub the skin off of his face. “There ain’t anything to do about it, exactly,” he mumbled. “It just is.”

  
  
  


Hosea’s eyebrows hitch up in curiosity. “My imagination’s running riot.”

  
  
  


Arthur couldn’t help the incomplete chuckle that escapes him. Still, he struggles through more sighs and huffs to open up. “I guess I been.. trying to wrap my head ‘round what I been feeling about things. ‘Bout a lot of things.”

  
  
  


“Do you mean the gang?”

  
  
  


“No, oddly enough. I mean—”

  
  
  


Arthur swallows, wanting to hide his face because he can feel the blood rushing to it, but he doesn’t. He just takes several breaths before answering. 

  
  
  


“I mean Kieran.”

  
  
  


Arthur feels a need to tense up after saying it. He looks for a hint of disgust in Hosea’s crepey face, looks for the raise of a hand in a slap, a dozen slurs and curses thrown at him, but instead, what he gets is his lips mouthing an “oh” and surprise. 

  
  
  


Arthur is confused. “What you mean ‘oh’?”

  
  
  


“Well, it’s shock and surprise, but not I think for the reason you’re thinking,” Hosea informs. “No, I’m surprised because it’s unlike you to admit that to yourself. I didn't think you’d never do it.”

  
  
  


“Admit what to myself?”

  
  
  


“That you’re keen on him.”

  
  
  


Now Arthur’s the one to be surprised. Surprised at Hosea’s nonchalance and his saying that so formally, like it was normal. Blood now fully compacted in his face, Arthur shakes himself once more. “I—I ain’t even sure it’s come to all that.”

  
  
  


“Well, it’s bound to come to something,” says Hosea. “I know you can’t say it outright, but you know in your heart that it’s so, and it’s up to you whether or not you want to do something about it. But if it were up to me, I’d put it right.”

  
  
  


Arthur’s still and quiet for a moment, feeling a strong urge to crawl into a ball, but he forces himself to keep talking about it, to keep opening up; it’s the only chance he’s got to do it. He does so in a whisper, like the whole world may hear. “Who says he’ll have me though? Mary wouldn’t. Surely that means somethin’.”

  
  
  


Hosea frowned. “Mary Linton is an uppity minx who didn’t deserve you then and doesn’t deserve you now.”

  
  
  


“Even so—” Arthur’s hand flies up in an attempt to slow Hosea’s incoming rant. “Kieran don’t deserve me neither. He’s a good kid, just likes horses and fishin’, and I’m a crazy bastard. A sour-faced idiot. I ain’t foolin’ no one.”

  
  
  


Hosea leans forward and lays a hand upon Arthur’s, gripping it tight. “You are a good man, Arthur. A  _ good  _ man, and anyone would be lucky to have you,” the old man says with passion. “Now people will come and go as they sit fit, there’s no fixing that, but you are not at fault. Don’t let some high-class ass prairie princess make you think different.  _ She’s  _ the fool, not you.”

  
  
  


Arthur ducks his head in a chuckle to hide a developing lump in his throat. Glassy-eyed, he sighs. “You know, I think it’s better if you go on and rip me a new one. You’re talkin’ crazy.”

  
  
  


Hosea smiles, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s back. “I’m old, and I’ve been on this earth long enough to know you can’t help who you fall for.”

  
  
  


Arthur smiles at that comment. Never mind that he’s an O’Driscoll, he’s sweet and kind and caring, and for a moment, he reckons he’s okay with letting his feelings take him for a while. 

  
  
  


Soon enough, however, Kieran returns, still flinching at Hosea’s still being there. Arthur’s eyes went back dry in the same second they got glossy, and his old man removed the hand on his back to stand from the chair. “Beg your pardon, Kieran. I was just leaving; my constant yapping is becoming incessant.”

  
  
  


“If you say so, sir,” Kieran chuckles lightly, his eyes pinned to his feet as he waits. Hosea chuckles to himself, and he does take his leave, not before a spare pat on his shoulder. Kieran is confused at the uncharacteristic gesture, but alas; he continues his work. Arthur would gaze at him throughout, behind his back and while he wasn't looking, sick with love and still wondering if he wanted to put things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback? more like the best thing in the world 💖


End file.
